


Hell in High School

by unionforj



Category: Union J (Band)
Genre: But that's what I named it, Gang Related Activity, M/M, Not Much High School Activity, So Deal, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unionforj/pseuds/unionforj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is not the definition of a good kid. But Josh, Jaymi, and JJ might be even worse, and things go down the drain for George when he learns that there’s a good chance that Josh fancies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you know how much I hate you?” George demanded, his brown eyes narrowed into thin slits.

 

Rosie merely laughed, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Of course. But not as much as I hate you.”

 

“No, I don’t think you understand, there is true disdain in my soul, buried deep and pointed at your person.”

 

“Just do it and get it over with already!” Rosie grinned, chewing on the end of her paintbrush. Scott nodded, his teeth bared by his widespread grin. They started to chant in a whisper, “Do it, do it, do it, do it.”

 

“No.” He was far too old for this. Really, they all were. They should have grown out of truth or dare when they were pre-teens. They knew by now that just because someone said, I dare you, it didn’t actually mean that one had to do it. They all knew better now.

 

But Rosie and Scot just grinned, with their evil glinting in their eyes. They so hadn’t grown out of it, none of them had, and once they hit thirteen, their dares grew bigger, and their consequences grew harsher.

 

“Do it.” They started to rhythmically hit their legs, smiles stretching across their face.

 

George crossed his arms. “I refuse.”

 

“Do it, do it.”

 

“You are all idiots, I swear.”

 

“Do it.”

 

“Fine!” George stood up, grabbing the paint wells. “My god, I hate you both so much.”

 

“Yes!” Rosie grinned; and high-fived Scott. George flared his nostrils and started walking to the front, as if he were such a good student and was going to put the paints away. He just knew that, behind their easels, Scott and Rosie were giggling uncontrollably. Towards the front sat his victim and his friends, one Josh Cuthbert and his footie pals, Jaymi Hensley and JJ Hamblett. They were, naturally and ever so cliché like, the best of the best. Uni scouts had already approached Cuthbert, and rumor had it, one professional scout. Not that George cared.

 

At all.

 

George couldn’t care less about it. Not even a little.

 

The three boys had been best friends since they were in elementary school, and everyone knew it. They were practically a gang, even had their own name: Triple J. They were practically always together, except for the times they had different classes. Cuthbert was in a higher level of English classes, while Hensley was in a harder maths course.

 

George knew all this because everyone knew these things. He did not spend his time staring at them, wondering how they managed to be handsome. He didn’t care. He cared about his siblings and friends, not about Triple J. He was a bit scared of them, but then again, so was everyone.

 

Besides, he wasn’t going to chat with the boys. No, he was going to piss them off. A few feet away from their chairs, he pretended to trip over his laces, and he yelped a bit, tossing the paint into the air. He righted himself, hid his small chuckle behind his hands, and watched as the paint flew in the air, splattering over Cuthbert’s denim jacket.

 

The entire room went silent. All the chatter stopped, the slip of paint brushes over canvas ceased and even the teacher’s scratch of her pen paused. Last time someone ruined one of Triple J’s jackets, a nose had been broken. Before that, a girl had dropped her lunch tray on Josh’s jacket, ruining it with ketchup, mustard and mystery meat. He had thrown her against a table and forced her to buy her a new one. She went home crying, came back the next day with a new jacket and switched schools.

 

The three boys stood up like lightning, jaws going slack. Cuthbert tore off his jacket, eyeing the damage with a worried fury.

 

George took a few careful steps back. The footie boys in general were known for their serious anger issues. Just a month ago, after one of the players ended up needing stitches after a game, the players had reportedly gone to the school they had played against and attacked the player at fault.

 

There wasn’t enough evidence to prove it, as the victim refused to name the attackers. However, the next day at school, the footie players looked way too smug for their own good.

 

Triple J was going to kill him. Cuthbert loved that jacket. He wore it almost every other day, and now, because of the stupid, stupid dare, George had ruined it. They were going to chase him down, turn it into a game, and beat him for Jacket Revenge. Perhaps if they thought it fun, they’d have the entire footie team join in.

 

He was sixteen. He was far too old for this crap, and he was far too young to die. He clasped his hands tighter over his mouth and nose, trying to look shocked, embarrassed, and sorry, rather than just fear for his life. “I am so sorry, I swear, oh my god!”

 

Then the boys looked up at him. Hensley looked furious, but then, for some unknown and terribly odd reason, Hamblett started punching his arm. Hensley’s anger faded somewhat, and he turned his back on George, hands on his face. George lowered his hands in surprise, keeping his palms pressed together in front of his chest. Like this, it was easier to throw his hands up in front of his face to protect himself. Then Cuthbert saw him.

 

His anger slipped away like an ice cube on glass. He even smiled, with just one corner of his mouth but was still a smile. “It’s alright.”

 

George felt his stomach drop into his ankles. “What?”

 

“I said, it’s fine, it was just an accident.”

 

George swallowed in shock. He knew that this had happened before, he had been preparing himself for the physical damage that was bound to occur. But there they were, Hensley meditating, Hamblett just waiting, and Cuthbert fucking smiling.

 

“Really, it’s fine.” Cuthbert smiled; a real smile with both halves of his mouth. “Don’t get so worked up about it. It’s just a jacket.”

“Right…” George nodded incredulously. He took a few steps backward, preparing for that slow anger where someone pretends to be fine before they explode.

 

“Okay then,” Cuthbert nodded. “Have a good day.”

 

“Okay, okay,” George nodded furiously. He did not run away, he merely… power walked back to his stool in the back.

 

“Well?” Rosie asked eagerly, grabbing hold of his arm and shaking it. “Well? When is he going to beat you up?”

 

“I hate you all,” George swallowed, staring blankly at his canvas. “So much. So very much, I swear I just lost a decade of my life.”

 

“Seriously?” Scott asked. “When is he going to beat you up?”

 

“I don’t know.” George turned to them with wide eyes. “He told me it was fine and wished me a good day.”

 

He expected for them to scream in surprise. He expected them to be skeptical, accuse him of lying. But Rosie groaned, head falling back, while Scott laughed, holding out his hand. “Pay up, bitch!”

 

“What the hell?” George demanded. Rosie muttered under her breath, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “What did you bet on? Why were you betting on it?”

 

“Because gambling is fun.” Scott grinned.

 

“Scott here,” Rosie jabbed at him with her thumb, “seems to be under the impression that Cuthbert is fond of you.”

 

“Fond of me,” George parroted. “Fond of me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

“I’m bored,” Scott shrugged. “And he likes to look at you.”

 

George frowned and leaned to the side of his easel, quickly joined by Rosie and Scott. All he saw was Cuthbert turning around to face the front. Which meant that he had been facing the back before George had went to look. “No. No you’re all insane.”

 

“Of course we are,” Rosie sat back down on her stool. She tossed her braid over one shoulder and batted her eyes, painted with dark eye shadow. “That doesn’t mean we’re wrong.”

“It means you’re crazy, and I hate you. What if he had beaten me up, huh?” George protested.

“Like we would let that happen,” Scott shook his head. “Rosie would stab him with her heels first.”

Rosie nodded, swinging her crossed legs. She had a very distinct style, a mix of Goth and prep in the oddest way. She wore fishnets and short skirts, crop tops and jackets with stiletto heels that had once torn a hole in his foot and trapped him on crutches for months. Her hair was died a dark brown and every once in a while; he could see red at her roots.

 

Scott hardly ever changed his look. His hair was always in cornrow braids, and he always wore either his brother or his dad’s old varsity jacket when it was cold. Otherwise he was a strict t-shirt and jeans guy.

 

George groaned. “I could have ended up with broken bones before you arrived.”

 

“Like you care about that,” Rosie waved away his worry. “You just don’t want to end up being rescued by me.”

 

“Oh my god!” George protested, dropping his head into his hands.

 

“You know, they might just be playing him,” Rosie suggested, folding the money in her hands. “Getting him comfortable so that they can jump him later.”

 

“Shut up and pay me.”

 

“Oh fuck, she’s right.” George whined. “They’re just tricking me so that its more of a hunt than a chase.”

 

“Cuthbert has doe eyes,” Scott waved at the air, trying to bat away George’s concerns. “He won’t let them jump you.”

 

“You think everyone is gay,” Rosie insisted. “Stop looking at the world through rose tinted glasses, that boy is straight as hell.”

 

“Hell isn’t straight,” Scott pointed out. “Its supposedly a world under ours, making it an uneven sphere.”

 

“Fine, a ruler.”

 

“Bitch, have you not seen rubber rulers?”

 

“Oh my god, you two, shut up.” George yelped. He was going to die this afternoon. He did not need his best friends’ squabbles to be the last thing he heard. They sighed and shifted on their stools, and the trio spent the rest of the class pretending to paint.

 

George spent the rest of the day clinging to his friends sides, and glaring at them when they dared try to complain. “You got me into this mess.”

 

“You could have said no!”

 

“Like you would let me.” George spat at them.

 

Scott would shrug and let him shadow him in the halls of the school. He didn’t really mind. He was well over six feet tall, it wasn’t like George could crowd him.

But George couldn’t hide behind Scott forever. Eventually, their classes were separated, and George, the poor thing, was left alone.

Now, George hated his English class. His grammar was fine, but the whole find the theme, protagonists, write an essay, prove your point thing was exhausting. And the fact that Jaymi Hensley was in his class didn’t exactly encourage him to go on this day. So he forged himself a bathroom pass and strolled the halls, muttering to himself on different ways he could have convinced his friends to not make him destroy the Josh Cuthbert’s jacket.

 

He heard people following him. He would go to his grave insisting this fact. But running in the halls would only attract teachers and if there was one thing George wasn’t, it was a snitch. So he walked a little faster, and a little faster, keeping his feet quiet.

It was happening, it was happening now. A hand yanked on his hood, pulling him, the collar choking on

George’s neck and he was yanked into the bathroom. He sputtered and coughing trying to grab at the sink. but more hands yanked him on to the ground. George landed with a sprawl, wincind as pain erupted in his wrists when he landed heavy on it.

Three of the footie plays stood over him, the middle one with a furious glare in his eyes.

“I though you would wait till the end of school,” George drawled, lifting his hand to inspect the damage. It was the wrong thing to do, and the middle one kicked his wrist and chin up, making him fall back again.

“What the hell did you do?” He demanded, voice echoing on the tiles.

George gaped. “If you don’t know, why are you doing this?”

The boy growled, and grabbed George by the neck, lifting him up. George gasped, trying to breath. He tried to hold the guy’s wrists, tried to pull his hands free, but soon his feet were dangling in the air. THe pressure on his wind pipe was painful and strong. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

“I know you killed his jacket. I know helet it go.” The glint in his eyes was cruel and sadistic, and George felt cold as he tried to breathe, to suck air in to the little room in his throat. “WHY DID HE LET IT GO?”

George choked, feeling light headed. His wrist was killing him, but not as badly as the hands on his throat. Things were turning black. Everything else was fuzzy. So fuzzy.  
The bathroom door swung open with a bang, and the pressure on his throat released.


	2. Chapter 2

Blue eyes. Hovering over him, worry tugging at lips below them. George looked up in a daze at them. Whoa. His chest really hurt.

 

There was a pair of hands on his chest, pushing down repeatedly. Air was being forced into his lungs, and oh, how it burned. He coughed and spluttered, pressing his good hand to his mouth, pushing something soft away. His head lolled to the side, and his back arched as he instinctively pulled all the oxygen he could get into his chest. When he opened his eyes, he saw a poll of maroon blood inching its way towards him. Hands gripped roughly at his collar, forcing him to sit up straight.

 

The blue eyes glared, freezing his soul as his breath hitched and coughed. “Never do that again. Do you hear me?”

 

George didn’t say anything. Instead, he let his head droop back, and he closed his eyes.

 

***

 

“I swear, Harriet, I’m fine.”

 

“You can’t be fine, your neck is purple.”

 

“I’ll wear a scarf.”

 

“That is not what I meant!” Harriet grabbed his elbow, yanking him out of the wheel chair. Someone had called an ambulance on him. He hadn’t had to spend very long there, maybe two hours or a bit more. He had bruises on his chest, which apparently was from someone giving him CPR. His throat was thoroughly bruised, and his wrist was badly sprained.

 

And a detective had come by his room, with a notepad and pen, asking too many questions.

 

“Look, son,” Detective Jensen had said. “I know in High School, these things seem big. Being called a tattle tale-…”

 

“I’m not your son.” George had snapped. “And really? Tattle tale?”

 

“Alright then, snitching.” The cop twisted his hands worriedly, eyeing the bruises on George’s neck. “You could have died today, do you realize that?”

 

“No, really?” George rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He didn’t even wince. Sure, morphine made him feel a bit mellow, but it certainly cancelled out the pain. But his knowledge of what would happen should he speak? That could never be removed from his head.

 

“Look, George-“

 

“I don’t know who did it.”

 

“If you saw him again-“

 

“No.”

 

Harriet’s knuckles were white as the gripped the steering wheel, and her gaze was straight ahead on the road. George swallowed, trying to submerge the guilt he felt for worrying her, for worrying everyone. For nearly leaving them without a word.

 

Over a stupid. Fucking. Dare.

 

“Can you say something?” He begged her, trying not to frown, to keep his face blank.

 

“What should I say?” Harriet asked bitterly. “How was your day at school? Want to borrow my scarf? What the hell did you do to get yourself on a hit list?”

 

George looked down, fiddling with the edge of the wrap on his bum wrist. Harriet sighed, and started pulling the car over to the side. “Look. You don’t have to tell me what happened. But you do have to tell me if there’s a chance of it happening again.”

 

George dropped his head back against the head rest, and let his eyes close. He could see them behind his eye lids, the one guy and his two friends, so furious, so angry. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the images there.

 

“George.”

 

“Look, I don’t know. Okay?” George didn’t have the energy to snap at her. He tried to sound angry but the most he could manage was annoyance. “I spilled paint on Josh Cuthbert’s shirt. He told me it was fine. His friends jumped me in the bathroom.”

 

Harriet frowned. “You mean-?”

 

“No! No, not them, just,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Just a few guys from the same group.”

 

“I see. And what did they want?”

 

“What do you mean, they wanted to cause me pain.”

 

“I mean, Triple J fights on its own, or with the others.” Harriet restated. “So it doesn’t make sense-!”

 

“I know, okay? I know!” George insisted, twisting to face his sister. Her eyes tore down, unable to see his face when his neck was quickly turning a violent shade of purple. “I know it doesn’t make sense but that’s what happened, and Harriet, please, I just want to go to bed.”

 

Harriet groaned, resting her forehead down on the steering wheel. He counted in his head, slowly, one, two, three, four, waiting for her to straighten. Depending how long she lay collapsed equaled a rough estimate of how upset she was.

 

Six. Seven. Eight.

 

Finally she sighed, and George exhaled in relief as she restarted the car. “We’re going to Dad’s, though.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because I left my phone charger there.”

 

“Damn it, don’t you have a spare-?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one I’m using, dumbass, I lost my other one.”

 

George groaned, and leaned back in the seat. His father’s house was a full thirty minute walk to the school, if he jogged. So really, it was a thirty minute jog in cold weather. Plus, the only bedrooms available were for the twins (from his father’s second marriage) and his father. Usually when he, his fully biological brother or his sister slept there, they brought a blow up mattress to split.

 

He pulled out his phone, opening a new mass message for Scott and Rosie. He winced, seeing almost half of his contact names changed. “Damn it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, nothing.”

 

I still hate you 2. But I’m going to be late for first period 2morrow. Cover for me?- George-Meister

 

It took all of three seconds for his phone to bing with the replies.

 

****

Dude, wth u ok? Scott Monster

 

__

Why will u b l8? Rosie-Posy

 

Someone called the hospital on my ass. So my sister is taking me to my dads. Sucks. George-Meister

 

Uh, we kno? Rosie-Posy

 

If u gots the gas money I can pick u up. Scott Monster

 

Can we go halvsies? How did you know? George-Meister

 

George frowned at the texts in his hand.

 

Dude, you got yourself carted through the school on a table. You looked like shit, btw. Rosie-Posy

 

Oh wat the hell? George-Meister

 

Bitch so owes me. Scott Monster

 

We bet on Cuthbert making his nose bleed, not some random ass footie player trying to kill him. Rosie-Posy.

 

 

George groaned, and silenced his phone in frustration. He couldn’t deal with their squabbles. Not after this night.

 

***

 

Sleeping on the blow up bed was stressful and exhausting, rather than relaxing and refueling. Harriet was a blanket hog, and he always ended up being kept away by his shivers.

 

Once he tried sleeping on the couch with his own, separate blanket. Somehow she ended up taking that too. It blew his mind, and he gave up because that was one lumpy couch, and he’d rather sleep cold on the blow up mattress.

 

***

 

“Did you sleep at all?” Scott asked as George climbed into the back seat. For some reason, Rosie was there, even though everyone had to wake up extra early when they had to pick up George at his dad’s house, and it would be even earlier if Scott had to swing by Rosie’s too. George had tried his best to cover up the deep violet bruises on his neck. But they were too high up, too obviously finger shaped, and like hell would he wear his sister’s sparkly pink scarf.

 

Rosie whistled, turning around in her seat, staring at his neck. “You want me to help-?”

 

“Put your compact away, and stay away from my skin.” George said harshly.

 

“You look like shit, man,” Scott told him as they started to drive off. “And I’m not talking about your neck.”

 

“Well, Harriet was having some violent dreams, and it certainly didn’t help the whole-“

 

“Almost dying?” Rosie suggested. He glared at her, shaking his head as a warning.

 

“Want to swing by a drive through coffee shop?” Scott asked, eying him in the rearview mirror. “We can go to the one that asks for money after ward.”

 

“Good, cause I’m broke as hell.”

 

“You should know,” Rosie began, twisting her dark brown hair in her hand. “That pretty much everyone knows what happened.”

 

“I don’t even know what happened, so fuck that theory.”

 

“Well, everyone knows what happened after whatever happened, happened.”

 

“Oh, what the hell?” Scott grimaced. George tilted his head in confusion. She sighed in exasperation, and twisted around fully to face him. “Fucking Josh Cuthbert brought you back to life! He called that ambulance and personally escorted your gurney to the said vehicle.”

 

“Okay, it was not a gurney-!”

 

“Shut up, Scott, nobody cares!”

 

“Oh my god, just get me some caffeine before you two start fighting.”

 

It was probably a rumor anyway. Josh Cuthbert had to be in class or doing something faux-nice-boy. Helping nans cross the street. Holding hands with a cheerleader. Scoring goals.

 

Hiding all of his weapons.

 

Other things that didn’t include walking by George on stretcher. They were two very different kind of bad. George and his friends skipped class, forged things, stole coffee and other convenience items.

 

 

There was blood on Triple J’s hands though, and the rest of the footie players. George and his friends, they mainly just helped people. By making things, illegally. But that was so far from the footie team.

 

“Look,” Rosie said softly. Scott was pulling up to the school while George happily drank his stolen coffee. At her tone, he started tugging his collar up, nervously. “You’ll probably get some looks.”

 

“I can handle looks.” George said. “We’ve always gotten looks.”

 

“One of the most handsome and most dangerous boys in school basically saved your life.” Rosie pointed out. “This is going to be a bit different.”

 

“Whatever. Lets get it over with.” He yanked the door open and climbed out.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a bit worse than he had expected. Pretty much everyone was staring at his neck as he and his friends roamed the halls. Some had the decency to look down when he caught them staring, but the rest just started whispering behind their hands, ad if he had no clue what they were talking about.

“I heard that he died, like total heart stopped, brain shut down death….”

“… sh had given him CPR. Like he kissed him awake.”

“D’you think this means he’s in the gang now?”

“I am going to murder someone.” George tore his locker open, grabbing his notebooks and literature.

“Oh, hush, it’s mostly flattering.” Rosie waved off his fury. “I mean, there’s a few Disney princess references, but your hair is not nearly long enough for any of it to be taken seriously.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Since when has she ever helped?” Scott rolled his eyes, and shut George’s locker. “You do realize this is like the perfect opportunity to get away with shit, right?”

“And what are you talking about?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Shueler!” Scott clasped his hands together and widened his eyes. “I would have studied for the maths test, really, but I was kept away by nightmares of *death!”

Scott pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to faint, arching his back and bending his knees a bit. He spun around and stood back up, his dark eyes glinting. George smiled. “You’re a genius.”

“Damn it!” Rosie shook her head. “No! No! Because then I can’t cheat off of you.”

“Why would you even want to cheat of me, I never get higher than a B.” George protested. “Go find a nerd to copy.”

“Nerds are snitches,” Rosie sniffed. ”I don’t even care as long as I pass.”

George and Scott shook their heads, letting Rosie lead the trio to their next class. Her heels clacked loudly in the halls, and her head was high, despite the fact that nearly everyone was watching, or hiding their heads in their lockers. George tugged his jacket a little higher on his shoulders, watching warily as his fellow students stared right back.

It was a morning filled with pity.

All of his teachers at some point snuck over to him, daring to actually put a so-called comforting hand on his shoulder, promising him that, *if things got too hard* he could step out for a moment. He was seriously going to stab something if it kept up.

He tried to prove to everyone that he was fine. He kept up with smart ass remarks, was late to class, everything he normally did. But there was no reaction, just *pitying smiles from the rest of the classes. So finally, he took up on their promise. In the middle of his French Class, he just grabbed his things and left, a furious fire in his eyes.

George growled, and kicked one of the lockers violently, the sound emanating through the halls. He hissed in pain, in frustration, feeling the sad eyes from everyone that used to not give a shit. He kicked it again, and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

“Please, stop, I’m sorry!”

George looked up. He heard the sound of choking, of gasping for breath. He took a few careful steps towards the sound, which was around a corner from him.

Normally, he and his friends would walk away from such a sound. If they saw it, they became witnesses, and everyone knew what happened to witnesses: very bad things. But he could still feel hands around his throat sometimes, his feet dangling in the air, his skin growing cold and his head growing light. And he couldn’t help but round the corner.

It was the boy who had choked him. But he was the one pushed against the lockers, his feet kicking front of him, trying to get at his assailant.

And there was Josh Cuthbert, holding a baseball bat horizontally in the air, pushing against the other boy’s throat. Hensley and Hamblett stood behind Cuthbert, arms crossed and smirks on their faces.

“You like that, huh?” Cuthbert demanded. “This is what you get, do you hear me? There was no reason to go after him. What the hell made you go after someone with out my order?”

He had caught Hensley’s eye. George turned to run, but too quickly, Cuthbert shouted out, “Stay.”

George froze, closing his eyes in fear.

“Would you look at that, Nicky?” Cuthbert sneered. He must have let up on the bat, because ‘Nicky’ started to gasp and cough. “Look who’s here for his apology.”

I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die…

“Turn around, Shelley.” Hensley called.

 

George opened his eyes, and forced his face into a blank pallet. He turned around slowly, fisting his hands. Cuthbert was smirking at Nicky, who was grabbing hold of the bat pressed against his throat. He was still having trouble breathing, but he wasn’t going to die anytime soon. Cuthbert hissed, and pushed down briefly on the bat. “Well?”

 

Nick gasped, his legs stiffening and his skin paling. Hensley grabbed George’s arm, and dragged him closer to his friends and their victim, pushing him into Nick’s eye line. George winced, feeling the weight on his throat triple, and he didn’t dare look into Nick’s face.

 

“He wasn’t a target,” Cuthbert said. “Your only targets are the ones I assign, did I assign him to you?”

 

Nick writhed and choked out a, “No.”

 

“Then what made you think it was a good idea?”

 

Nick didn’t answer, and Cuthbert didn’t make him. Instead he just snarled never again or you won’t be able to regret it and dropped the bat to swing down his fist with a loud smack of skin on skin. George tried not to wince, rather he stuck with keeping his head down on the ground, trained on the lines of the floor.

 

A pair of shoes crept into his view, and a large, callused hand grabbed hold of his chin, yanking it upward. George hardened his face, seeing the lines of Cuthbert’s perfect jaw and his startling blue eyes. He quickly said, “I didn’t see anything.”

 

Cuthbert chuckled. “Of course.”

 

Cuthbert bent down to pick up the bat, clasping it behind his back. His eyes scanned George’s neck, and his nostrils flared visibly. George swallowed, waiting. Cuthbert sighed, and nudged Nick’s unconscious body. “He won’t be bothering you again.”

 

George nodded in response, the invisible pressure on his throat suddenly too great for speech.

 

Cuthbert nodded his head, and started to leave, followed by his friends as he swung the bat through the air. “See you around, George.”

 

George waited for them to be gone, for them to be out of earshot, before he ran in the opposite direction, unable to be alone with the body of the boy who tried to kill him.

 

He ran to a bathroom, a different one, and splashed water on his face, trying to shock himself into reality. But the next bell rang, releasing students into the hallway, and moments later, people were screaming.

 

He looked up into the mirror at his dripping reflection and groaned. “I am in so much trouble.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh my god!” Rosie screamed. George rushed to press his hand over her mouth, his eyes going wild in desperation. They weren’t exactly in any sort of sound proof room. In fact, they were in the Men’s toilets on the opposite side of the school, opposite of the side where he had been strangled. Rosie ripped his arm off of her, tossing it to the side, “You are lying! You are a lying liar! You are a lying liar that is lying so hard right now!”

 

“Why would I make this up?” George demanded.

 

“Because it’s too, too- ugh!” She ran a hand through her dyed hair in frustration, pursing her lips that were painted just a few shades too dark. On most girls it would have looked clownish, but on her, somehow, it looked rather well fit.

 

“I told you, the bad ass likes him.” Scott mused.

 

“Okay, you shut up.” Rosie snipped. “We are bad ass. Cuthbert and his friends is plain criminal, and there is a difference. They hurt people.”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Scott asked, pushing up against the sink. He pointed towards the school, his dark fingernails scratching at the air towards the main part of the school, where their classes were. Where they were supposed to be. “All this means, is that Cuthbert just wants to protect Georgie’s wittle self.”

 

Scott pouted his lip mockingly to join the baby voice he made. George groaned, tugging at his locks of hair.

“That isn’t funny, Scott! I can take care of myself! Besides! None of this shit would have happened if Cuthbert had just beaten me up in the first place! He didn’t do anything! Which caused speculation, which lead to an insane footie player to take it out on me!”

 

Rosie mused, pressing her red and black painted fingers to her lips. “He’s right. He would have been a bit bruised, maybe, but no one would have killed him.”

 

“Okay, I’m right here, I didn’t die.”

 

“You sort of did.”

 

“You weren’t there, jackass,” George shoved Scott’s arm lightly. They didn’t know any of this for a fact. They didn’t know for fact if it was Josh who gave him CPR. They didn’t know for fact if he had needed the CPR.

 

They didn’t know for fact if he had died.

 

“There were three,” George piped up, awe coming into his eyes. He looked at Rosie with a furrowed brow. “Three. What happened to the other two?”

 

Rosie looked over his shoulder at Scott, shaking her head in worry and question. Scott must have done something, because she sighed dramatically. George stood up to face her fully, and opened his mouth. Then the door swung open to reveal a nerdy boy with acne and a distinct lost look on his face, clearly a lost little Year Ten lamb.

 

“Ew, perv, get out of here!” Rosie shrieked.

 

“Rosie, we’re in the men’s toilets.” Scott pointed out.

 

George sighed, and approached the lost youth, opening his jacket wide enough to show the hilt of his knife. “Get lost, little one.”

 

The Year Ten boy was shaking like a leaf. His eyes flicked from George’s weapon, to Scott’s dastardly glare and Rosie’s look of pure disgust. George quirked one dangerous eyebrow, a smirk growing on his face. He may have died, but scaring Year Tens was still easy to do. This he could manage.

 

“Well?” George demanded, his voice sharp as blades. “Scatter!”

 

The Year Ten squeaked and scampered away, his feet pattering on the plastic tile of the hall like a mouse. George grinned and slammed the door behind the year ten, hoping the noise would ward off any potential visitors. He spun around to face his friends, letting the anger back on his face. “Well?”

 

Rosie shrugged, and waved one hand in the air innocently. “Well, what?”

 

“Well? What happened to the other two?” George crossed his arms and glared at them.

 

“Do you really want to know?” Scott asked. Rosie nodded emphatically. George narrowed his eyes into slits, his fingers digging into his crossed arms.

 

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

 

“This is Triple J we’re talking about.” Rosie drawled. “Triple fucking J. And Cuthbert was really messed up when he found you. You said it yourself, what he did to Nicky?”

 

George flared his nostril and in haled deeply. “What does that have to do with-?”

 

“You know what it has to do with anything,” Scott snapped. George flinched, looking away. Despite his flamboyant ways, Scott was strong and dangerous as hell. He was usually their muscle.

 

And Scott was smart. He knew George far too well. And Triple J- well. George slid down against the door, hiding his face behind his knees as he hit the floor. He tried to not hyperventilate, tried to keep calm.

 

If what everyone was saying was true, then Cuthbert had been upset when he found George. And he wouldn’t have been alone, no. One of the boys had to be with him, Hamblett, really. He would have seen it. He would have seen Cuthbert upset, and George unconscious (not dead, no he couldn’t have died, no).

 

He would have handled the other two.

 

 

“Where are they?” George asked.

 

“There was a lot of blood,” Scott sat down next to George, and put one large hand on his friend’s knee. Rosie sighed, and moved to sit on George’s other side. “Michael and Clay were found pretty badly beaten behind the school. Some people are talking, saying they’re about to transfer. But you know how that goes.”

 

“This is horrible.” George groaned, digging his nose further into his legs.

 

“Look, just tell him-!” Rosie began. Scott glared at her into silence, but George still twisted his head to yell at her.

 

“Tell him? Tell him what? You brought me back from the dead, but I’m not going to pay you back? He’s a criminal, Rosie. He hurts people! He hurt Nicky! He almost killed him, and you want me to tell him it was all unrequited? He’ll kill us!”

 

“He won’t kill us.”

 

“Of course, you’re right.” George shrugged, shaking. “He’ll just make us miserable until we kill ourselves.”

 

The three sat in silence, just appreciating each other’s company. George could see his life flashing before his eyes. He had spent a lot of time painting, drawing and shuffling himself between his parents’ homes.

 

“We should do something,” Scott finally said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Before we commit suicide.”

 

 

“We don’t know if we will though,” Rosie pointed out. “What would he ask for anyway, if he’s so head over heels.”

 

“He’s a criminal he doesn’t do head over heels.” Scott rolled his eyes. “He does nose over gun, or something.”

 

“Sex,” George said blandly. Scott nodded in agreement, shivering. “Blow jobs, hand jobs, whatever, until he gets sick of me.”

 

 

“So,” Rosie swallowed in disgust. Despite the fact that Scott was very, very gay, the idea of Cuthbert making George repay a life debt in sex was very unappealing to them all.

 

“What should we do?”

 

“Melanie Rodriguez is having a party tonight.” Scott pointed out. “We crash it, and get pissed!”

 

***

 

George and his friends were known a bit. They were nowhere near as infamous as Triple J, oh no. People knew that the three had arrest records, that they had harmed a few who tried to hurt them. And they knew not to get in their way. So when they showed up at the party, people gave them curt nods, gave them their drinks, and then left them alone to brood.

 

“Damn it,” Rosie slurred, pushing her breasts around. Scott laughed and George quirked his eyebrows in amusement. “My itches boob! I mean… no. That doesn’t make sense. My… itches… my boob.”

 

Scott and George started snickering into their red cups. Whatever it was tasted like gasoline mixed with a sugary syrup. It was a terrible attempt to cover the taste of cheap alcohol, but they didn’t care. They were young, and they were desperate. Scott scooted in closer to George at some point, and started whispering little slurred jokes into his ear.

 

“Triple J is here,” Scott had explained. “Don’t want ‘em to think you’re available.”

 

George had giggled and nodded, falling over on the couch.

 

“Damned lacey bra.” Rosie muttered. “Methinks… bras… are like, total torture things, you know? Like, it’s the best in th’world, takin’ it off.”

 

“They’re staring at us!” Scott muttered. He wound his hand into George’s hair, humming some Britney song that normally, George would know by heart. Rosie continued muttering about the evils of female undergarments, and Scott continued whispering. “You wanna do something really stupid?”

 

George didn’t even pretend to think, rather grinned and nodded. Scott grabbed his head and pushed their mouths together. It wasn’t the most graceful of make out sessions. Rather the entire room had sort of turned into a mating pile. All George would remember was that he and Scott had made out, and there had been belts and buttons and zippers undone. They were teenage boys, it was easy to get them horny. Then the alcohol started to make him rather sleepy.

 

Once Triple J had noticed, it didn’t last long. It was a blur, of Scott being thrown off of him, of yelling, of being yanked up, of being dragged by the elbow away.

 

“Wait, no!” He tried to mumble. Someone groaned, and then tossed him over a shoulder. He really would have kicked, would have yelled, but he was quite tired.

 

He remembered lights flashing, and being pushed into a car as police arrived.

 

 

“What the hell, man?”

 

 

“He’s not getting arrested again.”

 

 

“He’s been arrested before.”

 

 

“Not now, Jaymi.”

 

 

“You can’t keep doing this.”

 

 

“I can and I will, now shut it.”

He remembered being carried, like he was a child. He remembered being cold and then perfectly warm. And then he went back into a deep sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

George woke up with a rather fuzzy head. Not that he had grown fur or anything. It’s just that it was hard to think. Was growing fur over night strange? It should be strange, shouldn’t it? One of those things where it would be a funny thing to wake up to, but then it lost the funny with in minutes. Or maybe he woke up a giant cockroach. Like Metamorphosis.

 

God he hated that novelette. He set it on fire once he was done with it. Like seriously, why was it ‘so good’ the dude died a bug. A giant, disgusting bug. His family locked him in a room to die. They used a broom to get him off of the wall. Like.

 

Ew.

 

George yawned and stretched out his body. Oddly enough, his back didn’t crack from sleeping on Scott’s cou-

 

Oh. 

 

Oh.

 

Fuck.

 

He snapped his eyes open, keeping his breathing steady and his body still. Something cold was lying on top of his sprained wrist, a bag that once upon a time must have been ice. His wrist had been freshly wrapped in the Band-Aid wrapping. In front of him he saw an actual curtain. There was a soft, smooth mattress below him, and a thick, comfy blanket over him, tucked up under his arms. He sat up as slowly and as quietly as he could, nudging the melted icepack off of his wrist. The bed was huge, and like those old beds, there were curtains around it, but they met each other in the cent of the bed, closing just over his knees (as he tended to sleep curled up so Harriet would have a harder time kicking him where it hurt). He could see a little crack just over his legs where the pale- off white curtains didn’t quite meet. He reached out and tugged on the left curtain, throwing it back against the cushioned headboard.

 

He was alone. Everything was rather blurry, and he had to blink a few times to make any sense of it, but he was pretty sure there was a door on his left, rich cream carpets and dark embellishments on the walls. He heard a ringing sound, somewhere on his left. He rolled over onto his stomach, pushing the curtain, soft and rich fabric, farther back until he saw a blurry bedside table. On it were his clothes, neatly folded into perfect, smooth squares, and on top of that was his dinosaur of a phone. The green LED light was blinking with the name Rosie Posie flashing on it. He flipped it open and pressed answer with a groan. “Hello?”

 

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, ASSHOLE!” She screamed. George wrenched the phone away from his ear, blinking furiously. “I HAVE BEEN WORRIED SICK! OKAY? I literally threw up with worry, you mother-!”

 

“Okay, okay, Rosie I don’t know, alright?”

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

 

“Because I don’t know!” George rolled back over onto his back, relishing the perfectly fluffy pillows that cushioned his head. “I woke up, like five seconds ago, I don’t know where I am.”

 

“Well, can you find out?” Rosie groaned.

 

“What’s it to you?” George demanded, pulling the pile of clothes there to get dressed. He peaked around the other side of the curtains, making sure he was alone before he put Rosie on speaker so that he could dress. He quickly closed the other side before stripping off his clothes.

 

“Well, duh, dude, so that Scott can come get you.”

 

“Uh, yeah, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” George replied, tugging on his jeans. He momentarily eyed the pajamas he had been dressed in. They were white with blue pinstripes, and so very soft. He wondered if he could shove just the pants in his pockets to sneak home. No, whoever had dressed him obviously knew what they dressed him in. He tossed them to the side irritably.

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because, wherever I am, the owner is fucking loaded.” He peaked out the curtains again, spying a window on his right. “It’s probably better for me to sneak out and meet you somewhere than it is for you to come here.”

 

“A rich guy took you home? Was he any good?”

 

“What the- no! Bad Rosie! There was no sex as far as I can remember and I woke up fully dressed.”

 

“Maybe he wants to adopt you.”

 

George rolled his eyes, tugging on his jacket before he switched the phone off of speaker and pressed it to his ear. “Please, tell me why the hell an old rich bloke would come to a teenage drunk party to adopt one lonesome pathetic creature like me.”

 

“Hey, you’re the one describing yourself like that. Maybe he just saw your neck and decided to make you a pet.”

 

George pursed his lips, deigning not to give a reply. He studied the window. He was clearly on the second floor, judging by how far away the green blur below him was.

 

“Oh, come on then, that was clever!”

 

“Rosie, you’re not clever.” George muttered. There was a bush, from what he could tell. He’d get scratched up a bit, but it was a softer landing than just grass.

 

“Alright I may not be Hermione Granger but I’m not dumb!”

 

“I never said you were dumb, you’re just not clever.”

 

“And just because I didn’t teach myself to copy fucking Monet-“

 

“Look, I’m hanging up now, I’ll meet you up by that coffee shop you like, alright?” George hung up with out waiting for her to respond. Knowing her, she’d have a bunch of décor questions and he’d never get out. He frowned, looking back to the nightstand where his clothes had been lain out. Where were his sneakers? He was sure that he had been wearing his best pair, a bit stained with a hole here or there, but very comfortable. He got down on his hands and knees, searching under the bed to see if they had been kicked under. Instead he found a note, in stiff, block like handwriting on top of a pair of shiny black, brand new sneakers.

 

“You have ridiculously tiny feet,” George read. He glared at the note, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He examined the shoes. They were his size, a size 7, and like his old ones: flexible around the arch of his foot, with thin soles. But they weren’t his shoes. “Damn it.”

 

His shoes were no where to be found, and every second he wasted was another second closer to someone coming in. So he sat down on the bed and tugged on the shoes. They were stiff with youth and ever so shiny and it made his lips curl just a bit. He tied them tightly and made his way back over to the window. He grinned, spying a rain pipe just left of the window. HE unlocked the window, and started pushing up.

 

Sirens started whirling, loud and violent in his ears. He hissed and pushed quickly, kicked the screen out of the window frame. He had to work quickly, if he was to escape before someone caught him. Why the hell did the person put on the alarm? He grabbed hold of the rain pipe, and swung himself over. Using his feet and one hand to hold himself up, he reached out, trying to close the window behind him. It didn’t work, so he grunted, and started to shimmy down the wall. His hands were cramping and he was slipping but he managed to make it down alright, jumping once he was mid-first floor, just outside of the bush he had previously considered using to cushion his fall.

 

He scanned the area, looking for people running about like chickens with their heads cut off, possibly with guns. But other than the alarm whirring over his head, nothing was happening. So he jogged for the gate surrounding the property. He grabbed hold of the gate, eyeing the space between the bars, then the height of the actual gate. He breathed out as much as he could, and tried to squeeze through the bars. He had to jump a bit, over the bottom bar, but then he made it through. He resisting yelling in triumph, and took to running as fast as he could.

 

George was a pretty decent runner, in actuality. He, Scott and Rosie all went running every Friday, rain or shine, a bit of a race. Whoever was last had to pay for lunch that day, then get teased for the rest of the week. Usually Rosie lost, because she refused to wear decent shoes most of the time. But her dad was drunk enough most of the time that she could sneak a fair amount of money out of his wallet. He slowed down when he heard police sirens approaching, tried to look like he fit into this rich ass neighborhood, all prim and proper. Thankfully they were too busy trying to get to the ringing house than to pay any attention to him, so he whipped out his phone, dialing the number still saved as Scott Monster.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Scott, it’s me.”

 

“Dude, what the hell, where are you?”

 

“Some fancy neighborhood.” George looked over his shoulder, hearing the sirens fall to a stop. “I’m finding the way out now.”

 

“How the hell did you get there?”

 

“I don’t know, I just woke up there. In a bed with a half canopy,” George looked down at his feet, “with strange sneakers in place of mine.”

 

“Are you still drunk?” Scott asked.

 

“No, but my eyes are blurry.” George said.

 

“Huh,” Scott hummed. George waited for about half a block, waiting for Scott to finish his thought.

 

“You still there?”

 

“Yeah, I was waiting for you to reply?”

 

“You didn’t give me anything to reply to.” George retorted. “How am I to reply to a hum?”

 

“Oh shut up,” Scott scolding. George could hear him throwing something.

 

“What was that?”

 

“That,” Scott hissed, “Was my third attempt at Berkley’s ID.”

 

“The Twenty-One year old want to be?” George asked. “I told you to wait for me.”

 

“I’m not a child, George, I can do it on my own.”

 

“Clearly you can’t, you know how much that ink costs.” George grounded into the phone. “Just put down the picture and get in your car. Me and Rosie are meeting up at Ringo Cups, alright then?”

 

“I hate that place.”

 

“Everyone does but Rosie, just go.”

 

“When will you get there?”

 

George sighed, pinching his nose. “As soon as I can trick a taxi into thinking I’m an honorable kid that will pay.”

 

He hung up and shoved his phone deep into his pocket. George rarely was able to actually get a taxi to pull over for him. Most cabbie’s were smart enough to recognize by the mere look of him, that he wasn’t exactly a good kid. He would jump out of the cab, sometimes while it was still in motion, and run, just for the free lift. Now, he wasn’t near as bad as Triple J, but they managed to pull of the nice guy, footie player persona, which really wasn’t fair seeing as they actually had cars and didn’t need to get cabbies.

 

“Hey, kid!”

 

George eyed a group of three young men, one with a cigarette hanging from his lips. “I’m sixteen. Not a kid.”

 

The middle man chortled. “Pretty child-like looking.”

 

George rolled his eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

 

The left one started rubbing his neck up and down, and George swallowed nervously, hiding his sprained wrist deeper in his jacket sleeve. “Some nasty bruises you got there. How did that happen?”

 

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

 

“It might be.” They stepped in closer. “You’re that kid, aren’t you? The one Triple J saved.”

 

George swallowed, taking in their leering gazes. Suddenly, he was very thankful for the new sneakers on his feet. “I’m going to take a guess that you’re not fans of Cuthbert?”

 

They snickered, and George didn’t wait before he took off running.


	6. Chapter 6

In actuality, running for one’s life took specific footwear. George would have been screwed wearing his old shoes or the ones given to him by the creeper who had picked him up whilst bladdered. In his old shoes, there wasn’t enough friction to keep him from falling all over the place. The shoes he was currently wearing were stiff and not broken in at all. His feet were aching within blocks. Now, George was a pretty fair runner: he knew how to breathe, to pace himself, to stretch his legs. But there comes the point when, no matter how practiced you are, your lungs start to burn and your muscles start to cramp.

George was just thankful to Rosie and Scott that he wasn’t the fat boy who couldn’t walk a mile anymore. He was eternally grateful, to be honest. But, he wasn’t an Olympian, and the men chasing him knew it.

Don’t text and run. Really, don’t. George was in an emergency situation, and it decreased his speed far too much and he ran into several bags of rubbish while attempting his SOS text: help me, now with his location. As a matter of fact, he tripped in the new, shiny shoes that were pinching his toes, falling into the street and hearing an awful tearing sound while he scrambled to get back on his feet and away from the three Triple J haters.

Ha. Three men hating on three boys, George would have found it funny, but he had no time for games.

One our way- Scott Monster

What happened?!- Rosie- Posie

George veered to the right, sliding down into an alley under a rubbish bin. He lay as flat as possible, resisting the urge to gag at the stench from the surrounding rubbish. He needed to be quiet. He needed to be invisible.

“Where’d he go?”

“He has to be around somewhere.”

George gripped his phone tightly in his hands, releasing his stress into his tight hold on the device. He tried to breathe quietly, but his body was desperate for air. Every muscle in his body was tensed, and his wrist was throbbing with the abuse of the last few days. The ice bag he had woken up with suddenly seemed like a rather nice idea.

The footsteps faded, but George didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare make a sound, remaining as still as possible. Scott and Rosie were on their way, his back up. Those men could be anywhere, waiting for him to feel safe, to exit without a care. Waiting to attack him when his adrenalin rush faded away.

The adrenalin didn’t take long to disappear, and replaced itself with cramps in his back and thighs. He did eventually try to shift, just a bit, being as quiet as possible, but there wasn’t a lot of room under the rubbish truck, and the mere centimeters didn’t do him much good.

Seconds ticked by slowly. It took them a while, but eventually, all those seconds ticking turned to minutes, and the minutes slugged up to half an hour, then a full one. And once that happened, he heard footsteps running towards the dingy little alley he had hidden in.

“George? George!” Rosie demanded. Her heels clicked on the concrete, angry and determined.

He poked his head out, eyes shifting. “Are they gone?”

Rosie gagged, covering her red leather clad hand over her mouth. Scott snickered, “No one’s here, mate.”

“Ugh, thank god!” George used his good hand to dig himself out, holding his sprained wrist to his chest. “If I had to stay under there any longer, I was going to claw my eyes out. Well, my nose first.”

“You are showering the moment we get to my place. Oh my god.”

“He doesn’t even smell,” Scott protested.

“I don’t care, he was by the rubbish far too long to be sanitary.”

“I really wouldn’t mind,” George interrupted, glaring at his two partners. “Just get me out of here.”

***

“So then, I run into these blokes, just out and about, and they just bug me about my throat for a bit,” George continued, rubbing a towel against his wet hair. He had on a pair of Rosie’s brother’s trousers and a jumper. The trousers were bit big around his hips, but a belt kept them on well enough, and the jumper’s shoulders kept sliding to one side, but he didn’t quite care enough to right it. “Then I realize they don’t like Triple J, at all, so I run and they chase and I end up under the rubbish.”

“That doesn’t make any sort of sense, though.” Rosie protested. “How old were they?”

“I don’t know, older than us.” George sat down on the couch’s arm rest, next to Rosie. Scott was flipping through a magazine in the chair next to her, feet propped up on the coffee table. “Maybe in their mid twenties, no older.”

“Bit old for a high school criminal’s enemy.” Scott said.

“Hey, have you finished with Berkley’s ID?” George asked, tossing the towel to the side. Rosie’s whole family were slobs, her house was basically a sty. One towel on the ground made no difference, and Rosie barely batted an eye at his actions.

“You told me not to,” Scott shrugged. George gave him a thumb’s up, praising his lack of action. “Do you have any idea why he wants to be twenty-one?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” George replied.

“Maybe he’s going travelling,” Rosie shrugged.

“The picture you took makes him look like a prepubescent child,” George glared at her.

“I didn’t take that picture,” Rosie snapped, her eyes turning to ice. George shivered. “He gave me that picture, you know I am better than that.”

“Maybe we should make him come back and take a better picture.” Scott suggested, crossing his legs in thought.

“No,” George pursed his lips and shook his head. “Then he will come back, yell at us for a bit, and have to get a second ID.”

“He won’t be happy about that.” Rosie mused, inspecting her nails. “I think I need another manicure.

“He’ll yell at us for a bit, but Scott can take him.” George snickered. “Your nails are fine.”

“Oi!”

“Shut it, Scott, Berkley is a twig.”

“But they’re chipped.”

“It looks scary, it’s fine.”

Rosie dropped her hands and sighed. “It just looks messy.”

George put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “On other people, yeah. On you it’s scary.”

“You swear?”

Scott snorted, and George held up one warning finger, not breaking eye contact with Rosie. “I promise.”

George’s phone started ringing loudly, making George wince. He flipped it open, and said, “Hello?”

“Georgie, can I use your paints?”

“Louisa, what have I told you, those paints are expensive.”

“So that’s a no then?”

“That’s a big, giant no.”

“But-“

“But what? Are you in my room? Put the paint and brushes down and back away slowly.”

“But I already did.”

“Louisa!” George spat. Scott and Rosie snickered, and he shot them a glare. “Why did you bother asking?”

“In case you said yes and I could look all polite.”

“You owe me new paint then.”

“What!”

“You heard me, you are buying me new paint.” George declared, feeling anger tighten his throat.

“But you buy really expensive stuff and dad won’t give me pocket money until I clean the garage and the garage is disgusting!”

“Which is why I told you that you can never use my paint.” He snapped the phone shut and groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead.

“Your siblings are brats,” Scott laughed, his head thrown back and shoulders shaking. “Its so weird that you’re related.”

“Half. Half related.” George mumbled from behind his hands. “Damn it, now we’re going to have to delay the Monet thing.”

“It will be fine,” Rosie mused, tucking a strand of her dyed hair behind her ears. “Mr. Malcolm is pretty patient.”

“Not that patient, and I have enough to worry about,” George muttered. His phone started to ring again, and he groaned, answering. “What now?”

No one answered, just heaving breathing. George frowned. “Hello? Who’s this?”

He narrowed his eyes, hearing the breathing. “Louise, if this is you, I don’t care you’re buying me the paint. Hello?”

Rosie nudged him with her heel. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” he looked down at the screen. Number blocked blinked back at him in the green light. “Who is this? Louise?”

“Who is it?” Scott asked.

George’s eyes widened, and he looked back down at the phone, then yelped, pressing the end button as quickly as he could.

“What was that about?” Rosie straightened, looking at him worriedly.

“I think someone was trying to track me.” George stood up, and grabbed his shoes. Everyone sprang into action, just in case it was true, preparing to run.


	7. Chapter 7

“We are so dead! Dead!”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“Where the hell are we going?”

 

“I don’t know, why would I know?”

 

“I need a destination!”

 

“Somewhere far away.”

 

“That doesn’t help me!”

 

“Why the hell are we being tracked! We are boring! Boring!”

 

“Just drive!”

 

“It won’t help! We’re being tracked! Our phones are being tracked! Oh my god, I can’t live with out my phone! What if my mom calls? What if I get a call and it says its from my mom but its not?”

 

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” George screamed. Rosie and Scott slammed their jaws shut. “Okay, so. We need a plan.”

 

“What good is a plan?” Rosie demanded. “They have our numbers.”

 

“We don’t even know who they are, okay.” George retorted, glaring at her. Her thick eyeliner was smudging from watery, scared eyes. “Eventually they will find us but at least, we can be prepared.”

 

“We can’t go home.” Scott’s knuckles were turning lighter and lighter until they reached a milk chocolate shade rather than a deep cocoa flavor. “They’ll be expecting that.”

 

George leaned back in his seat, groaning.

 

***

They ended up sleeping in the car. Twice. Rosie did manage to sneak back to her place, rather unnoticed, to get them clean clothes after they bathed in the sinks of some fancy restaurants. They did go dancing for a bit, but after Rosie’s bum was pinched three times and she gave two blokes black eyes, they decided it would be best to spend the night before school started back up in the car rather than getting hangovers.

 

“What did your brother do to get his collars so stretched out?” George complained, pulling the shirt so that it covered his shoulder.

 

“I never asked.” Rosie murmured, fixing her hair in her compact mirror. “I think my lipstick is too light.”

 

Rosie wore her lipstick rather dark, much darker than most girls did. But she knew how it worked on her, and it brought out how plump her lips were, distracting from how not prominent her cheekbones were.

 

“You’re lipstick is fine,” George whined. Scott snickered into to the elbow of his varsity jacket. George rolled his head to look at the other boy, and narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t.”

 

“Too late,” Rosie glared. “What is wrong with my make up?”

 

“Honey, I can’t even see your eyelids, that’s what’s wrong.”

 

“I like smokey eyes, what the hell is-“

 

“There’s such thing as too much-“

 

“It’s my thing, I’m allowed to have a thing.”

 

“It’s not a good thing.”

 

“Would you two get along, for once?” George snapped his fingers in between their faces, catching their attention. They glared at each other, Rosie clicking her tongue in irritation and Scott pursing his lips. George shook his head, feeling the sweater slip off his left shoulder yet again, but he didn’t care. “Why am I friends with you two?”

 

“Because we’re awesome,” Scott shrugged, eyes alight with mischief. “And we’re even better forgers together.”

 

“Someone needs to tell Mr. Malcolm that the painting will be late,” Rosie drawled, pulling out her lip liner.

 

“Not it!” George yelped, and Rosie quickly echoed the phrase; she was intuitive enough to at least see it coming. This of course, left Scott in the dirt. Scott groaned, falling back against the wall, making Rosie and George snicker at his pain.

 

“Oh come on!” Scott pleaded. “Why is it always me?”

 

“Because you’re slow.”

 

“That’s why it shouldn’t be me! What if he gets out a gun or something?”

 

“Oh, please it’s Mr. Malcolm, he’ll scold you and send you away.”

 

“So you do it!”

 

“I don’t have the time, and you never do anything!”

 

“I protect us.”

 

“Shut it, both of you!” George snapped. They slammed their jaws shut, eyeing each other with distasted. Scott turned around slowly, making his way to sneak off of the campus, and Rosie huffed, turning her nose up in the air. “You could try to get along a bit more.”

 

“Its fine, Georgie,” Rosie snipped, tossing her freshly re-dyed pitch black hair with red stripes over her shoulder. “It’s an amicable hatred.”

 

“Amicable my ass,” George muttered, shaking his head and tugging the shoulder of the sweater back up onto his shoulder. “One day, I won’t be here to stop you and I’ll come home to find one of you lying dead on the floor in a bloody mess.”

 

“Unless its Scott. You know I’m not fond of messes.”

 

“Right, of course,” George narrowed his eyes. “You’ll just poison him or something.”

 

Rosie laughed, and they parted ways, Rosie to her Maths class and George to his dreaded English. George did manage to keep his head down through most of the class. He could feel Jaymi Hensley staring at him the whole time. Thankfully, George was quick, and he managed to enter the class room just in time that he didn’t get in trouble, and Hensley had no time to try and grab him. Plus there was the whole, they pretended to be good teens, so Hensley couldn’t force someone out of their assigned seat to grab hold off him. And as soon as the bell rang, George was out of the class room faster than a blink of an eye.

 

He took the long way to the art classroom, which was empty of the teacher and any students, except for Rosie, who was setting up the easel and what was left of their paints, while Scott leaned against a wall, looking bored and tired.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” George asked, dumping his messenger bag on the floor.

 

“He’s mad because I yelled at him for taking so long.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Shut it,” Scott snapped. “I’m allowed to be irritable, I’ve been sleeping in a car for the past two nights next to that thing.”

 

He gestured towards Rosie with disgust evident on his face. George snickered. “We all have, Scott. It’s no excuse.”

 

“Fuck you all, I’m fantastic.” Rosie tossed her hair, a large smirk breaching her face, making her dark eyes sparkle. Somehow she had put in dark gold contact lenses in the spans of their separation. And it, as usual, looked spectacular.

 

George stood in front of the easel. All Mr. Malcolm wanted was a copy of Monet’s Bridge over Water Lilies. It was one of the largest forgeries that George had ever done, with original measurements being almost 93 by 74 centimeters. Mr. Malcolm had given them a copy to copy from, done by a professional. Why he wanted another copy, they didn’t know. They didn’t care. He was paying them a lot of money, money they needed. George stretched his fingers, and started mixing the paint colors to work on the bridge.

 

While he worked on the painting, Rosie worked on the water below him, the only thing he really trusted her to paint, where she could reach easily and they could both work without disturbing each other. Scott focused on their current ID forges. He was better at the technical side of forgery, the holographic printer, playing with barcodes and the like. Usually they always grew silent and still while working, disappearing into the flow that was the paintbrush and canvas, or the barcodes and numbers. There were almost no movements, besides cleaning their brushes and the tapping of a keyboard.

 

But today, Scott couldn’t keep still. He kept moving, checking the window on the door or the window to the courtyard. He was tapping his fingers, his eyes darting about nervously. It didn’t take long for Rosie to break.

 

“If you don’t quit it, I swear I will tie your arms down!”

 

Scott huffed defensively. “What did I do?”

 

“Everything! I swear you’ve cased the room a million times by now!” Rosie poked him in the shoulder with the wooden end of her brush.

 

Scott rubbed the probably bruised area with his hand, eyes narrowed at the girl. “I have a bad feeling, alright?”

 

“Bad feeling?” George leaned back so that he could see around his painting partner. “What kind of bad feeling?”

 

Scott huffed. “I think we’re being watched.”

 

“Who the hell would watch us?” Rosie demanded. George put down his paint brush and started heading over to the door. “No teacher takes us seriously. We’re boring. They’d probably think this is some assignment or something.”

 

George wrenched open the door to peer around the corner.

 

“Oh come on, that’s a bloody Monet. You can’t seriously-“

 

“Fine it’s an assignment from an art tutor or something-“

 

“It’s a perfect copy!”

 

“It’s unfinished!”

 

“Uh, guys,” George murmured, backing into the room slowly. Their argument silenced quickly, with small gasps of shock. Cuthbert, Hensley and Hamblett grinned, shutting the door behind them. Hensley turned around quickly, and George heard the click of the door locking. He wondered, only briefly where they had gotten the key- but it didn’t really matter.

 

“You,” Cuthbert said firmly, “broke my window.”


	8. Chapter 8

“We are so dead! Dead!”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“Where the hell are we going?”

 

“I don’t know, why would I know?”

 

“I need a destination!”

 

“Somewhere far away.”

 

“That doesn’t help me!”

 

“Why the hell are we being tracked! We are boring! Boring!”

 

“Just drive!”

 

“It won’t help! We’re being tracked! Our phones are being tracked! Oh my god, I can’t live with out my phone! What if my mom calls? What if I get a call and it says its from my mom but its not?”

 

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” George screamed. Rosie and Scott slammed their jaws shut. “Okay, so. We need a plan.”

 

“What good is a plan?” Rosie demanded. “They have our numbers.”

 

“We don’t even know who they are, okay.” George retorted, glaring at her. Her thick eyeliner was smudging from watery, scared eyes. “Eventually they will find us but at least, we can be prepared.”

 

“We can’t go home.” Scott’s knuckles were turning lighter and lighter until they reached a milk chocolate shade rather than a deep cocoa flavor. “They’ll be expecting that.”

 

George leaned back in his seat, groaning.

 

***

They ended up sleeping in the car. Twice. Rosie did manage to sneak back to her place, rather unnoticed, to get them clean clothes after they bathed in the sinks of some fancy restaurants. They did go dancing for a bit, but after Rosie’s bum was pinched three times and she gave two blokes black eyes, they decided it would be best to spend the night before school started back up in the car rather than getting hangovers.

 

“What did your brother do to get his collars so stretched out?” George complained, pulling the shirt so that it covered his shoulder.

 

“I never asked.” Rosie murmured, fixing her hair in her compact mirror. “I think my lipstick is too light.”

 

Rosie wore her lipstick rather dark, much darker than most girls did. But she knew how it worked on her, and it brought out how plump her lips were, distracting from how not prominent her cheekbones were.

 

“You’re lipstick is fine,” George whined. Scott snickered into to the elbow of his varsity jacket. George rolled his head to look at the other boy, and narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t.”

 

“Too late,” Rosie glared. “What is wrong with my make up?”

 

“Honey, I can’t even see your eyelids, that’s what’s wrong.”

 

“I like smokey eyes, what the hell is-“

 

“There’s such thing as too much-“

 

“It’s my thing, I’m allowed to have a thing.”

 

“It’s not a good thing.”

 

“Would you two get along, for once?” George snapped his fingers in between their faces, catching their attention. They glared at each other, Rosie clicking her tongue in irritation and Scott pursing his lips. George shook his head, feeling the sweater slip off his left shoulder yet again, but he didn’t care. “Why am I friends with you two?”

 

“Because we’re awesome,” Scott shrugged, eyes alight with mischief. “And we’re even better forgers together.”

 

“Someone needs to tell Mr. Malcolm that the painting will be late,” Rosie drawled, pulling out her lip liner.

 

“Not it!” George yelped, and Rosie quickly echoed the phrase; she was intuitive enough to at least see it coming. This of course, left Scott in the dirt. Scott groaned, falling back against the wall, making Rosie and George snicker at his pain.

 

“Oh come on!” Scott pleaded. “Why is it always me?”

 

“Because you’re slow.”

 

“That’s why it shouldn’t be me! What if he gets out a gun or something?”

 

“Oh, please it’s Mr. Malcolm, he’ll scold you and send you away.”

 

“So you do it!”

 

“I don’t have the time, and you never do anything!”

 

“I protect us.”

 

“Shut it, both of you!” George snapped. They slammed their jaws shut, eyeing each other with distasted. Scott turned around slowly, making his way to sneak off of the campus, and Rosie huffed, turning her nose up in the air. “You could try to get along a bit more.”

 

“Its fine, Georgie,” Rosie snipped, tossing her freshly re-dyed pitch black hair with red stripes over her shoulder. “It’s an amicable hatred.”

 

“Amicable my ass,” George muttered, shaking his head and tugging the shoulder of the sweater back up onto his shoulder. “One day, I won’t be here to stop you and I’ll come home to find one of you lying dead on the floor in a bloody mess.”

 

“Unless its Scott. You know I’m not fond of messes.”

 

“Right, of course,” George narrowed his eyes. “You’ll just poison him or something.”

 

Rosie laughed, and they parted ways, Rosie to her Maths class and George to his dreaded English. George did manage to keep his head down through most of the class. He could feel Jaymi Hensley staring at him the whole time. Thankfully, George was quick, and he managed to enter the class room just in time that he didn’t get in trouble, and Hensley had no time to try and grab him. Plus there was the whole, they pretended to be good teens, so Hensley couldn’t force someone out of their assigned seat to grab hold off him. And as soon as the bell rang, George was out of the class room faster than a blink of an eye.

 

He took the long way to the art classroom, which was empty of the teacher and any students, except for Rosie, who was setting up the easel and what was left of their paints, while Scott leaned against a wall, looking bored and tired.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” George asked, dumping his messenger bag on the floor.

 

“He’s mad because I yelled at him for taking so long.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Shut it,” Scott snapped. “I’m allowed to be irritable, I’ve been sleeping in a car for the past two nights next to that thing.”

 

He gestured towards Rosie with disgust evident on his face. George snickered. “We all have, Scott. It’s no excuse.”

 

“Fuck you all, I’m fantastic.” Rosie tossed her hair, a large smirk breaching her face, making her dark eyes sparkle. Somehow she had put in dark gold contact lenses in the spans of their separation. And it, as usual, looked spectacular.

 

George stood in front of the easel. All Mr. Malcolm wanted was a copy of Monet’s Bridge over Water Lilies. It was one of the largest forgeries that George had ever done, with original measurements being almost 93 by 74 centimeters. Mr. Malcolm had given them a copy to copy from, done by a professional. Why he wanted another copy, they didn’t know. They didn’t care. He was paying them a lot of money, money they needed. George stretched his fingers, and started mixing the paint colors to work on the bridge.

 

While he worked on the painting, Rosie worked on the water below him, the only thing he really trusted her to paint, where she could reach easily and they could both work without disturbing each other. Scott focused on their current ID forges. He was better at the technical side of forgery, the holographic printer, playing with barcodes and the like. Usually they always grew silent and still while working, disappearing into the flow that was the paintbrush and canvas, or the barcodes and numbers. There were almost no movements, besides cleaning their brushes and the tapping of a keyboard.

 

But today, Scott couldn’t keep still. He kept moving, checking the window on the door or the window to the courtyard. He was tapping his fingers, his eyes darting about nervously. It didn’t take long for Rosie to break.

 

“If you don’t quit it, I swear I will tie your arms down!”

 

Scott huffed defensively. “What did I do?”

 

“Everything! I swear you’ve cased the room a million times by now!” Rosie poked him in the shoulder with the wooden end of her brush.

 

Scott rubbed the probably bruised area with his hand, eyes narrowed at the girl. “I have a bad feeling, alright?”

 

“Bad feeling?” George leaned back so that he could see around his painting partner. “What kind of bad feeling?”

 

Scott huffed. “I think we’re being watched.”

 

“Who the hell would watch us?” Rosie demanded. George put down his paint brush and started heading over to the door. “No teacher takes us seriously. We’re boring. They’d probably think this is some assignment or something.”

 

George wrenched open the door to peer around the corner.

 

“Oh come on, that’s a bloody Monet. You can’t seriously-“

 

“Fine it’s an assignment from an art tutor or something-“

 

“It’s a perfect copy!”

 

“It’s unfinished!”

 

“Uh, guys,” George murmured, backing into the room slowly. Their argument silenced quickly, with small gasps of shock. Cuthbert, Hensley and Hamblett grinned, shutting the door behind them. Hensley turned around quickly, and George heard the click of the door locking. He wondered, only briefly where they had gotten the key- but it didn’t really matter.

 

“You,” Cuthbert said firmly, “broke my window.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Were you just sitting in here all day?”

George looked up. Cuthbert stood, looked suave as ever, leaning against the door frame with his limbs crossed, and one eye brow quirked.

“There wasn’t much to do.”

“You could have watched some telly”

“Or gotten lost,” George replied smoothly. He climbed off the bed and stood. “Find something I shouldn’t have.”

Cuthbert narrowed his eyes. “That’s called snooping, not watching Telly.”

“Well, how am I supposed to watch television if I don’t know where it is?” George retorted. Cuthbert didn’t seem to have an answer, but he tensed every muscle in his body and slammed George’s door shut. “That is not an answer!”

The bathroom connected to his bedroom was massive, with a shower that could easily fit him, Rosie and Scott whilst getting them all soaked. The mirror was huge and the bathtub as well.

But the glitz and the glamour made him sick to his stomach. It was all from blood money. And if it wasn’t bloody money, it was to remind him that he wasn’t going to be around for very long. 

The bed was soft, and it didn’t have Harriett hogging the blankets, and the hallways weren’t filled with infants screaming to keep him up at night. It also wasn’t home. Rosie and Scott weren’t going to come banging on the windows with water bottles filled with alcohol and syrup to mix up, and turn on the new Star Trek reboot movie.

Is he going to let you go to school 2morrow- Rosie-Posie

 

Don’t know- George- Meister George replied.

Nick something, we could sell it. -Scott Monster

Don’t tell him to nick anything! You’ll get him killed!- Rosie Posie

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” George fell back against the pillows. The curtains around the bed hid his face from the window, from no one really but it was still rather nice. He had tied theme back with a thick cord, but he had already checked, even if he tied both of the chords together, they would be too short to hang himself with or escape.

I don’t mean anything big, just something expensive but he could fit in his pocket.- Scott Monster

Expensive can mean big you fucking dumbass- Rosie Posie

But it doesn’t mean easily noticeable- Scott Monster

George considered breaking up the fight. It’s what he usually did, his role to play. But he really wasn’t that much of a good person, in fact he was kind of a horrible person, and he was really quite bored. So he let it go on much longer than it should have. And it lasted much longer that it normally would have gone on, to the point when he decided they were fighting just to entertain him, because they knew that he had nothing else to do.

Or maybe they really were fighting, because after all he had a whole house to explore. He didn’t tell them that he wasn’t exploring- they had been too busy at each other’s throats for him to tell them that. He rolled his eyes, and decided to believe the former; it was more sentimental, after all, and he rather wanted the emotional boost.

The door to his room swung open and George leapt up. “What the hell?”

Hensley raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You could knock!” George said accusingly.

“I could knock- you were locked in!”

“I w- I was? What if I was in the toilet?” George climbed off the bed and faced Hensley, crossing his arms.

“Well, then I wouldn’t have walked in on you?” Hensley crossed his arms and smirked. George growled in frustration, clenching his good, paint stained hand in frustration.

“It is still polite to knock!” He stood in front of Hensley, determined.

“It’s not like you were wanking!” Hensley laughed, his shoulders shaking. “You’re still uncomfortable here, you wouldn’t be able to get it up!”

George’s cheeks flushed in humiliation. “Don’t talk about that!”

“What? You’re willy?” Hensley mocked, pulling an exaggerated frown on his face and leaning down with his hands on his knees. “It’s okay, they make pills for that kind of problem.”

George wanted to scream, scratch at Hensley’s face with his fingernails, claw out his eyes, but he didn’t. He was a forger, there was a subtly to his art. He didn’t know what he would do, but he would do something, but later.

“Dinner’s ready.” Hensley finally said, standing up.

“Thank you, are you to carry a tray of champagne as well?”

Clearly Hensley didn’t appreciate the joke, and narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, Shelley.”

“Make me, Hensley.”

Hensley laughed, and grabbed hold of his wrapped up wrist. George yelped, and bit his lip. He couldn’t hold back his whimpers, hissing through his teeth. Hensley started leading him through the halls, saying, “It’s just too easy.”

***

Cuthbert had his feet up on the table. He even had his shoes on and George could see the dirt clinging to the bottom. He tried to ignore it, he really did, and he had his wrist, throbbing in pain to help ignore it.

“So you’re the forger?” Hamblett had started the conversation.

Hensley snorted. “JJ, you were there when we picked him up.”

“Well, yeah, but-“

“Just shut up.”

The dinner had been called a casserole of some sort but it tasted like macaroni and cheese to him.

“How long have you been painting?” Hamblett asked.

“A good while.” George shrugged. “Been drawing since ever.”

“You’re not eating.” Cuthbert commented. “Something wrong?”

“It tastes a little off,” Hamblett stared at his fork as if it had wronged him in some way. He looked to Hensley and asked, “Was this left over?”

“You know what I think this was from Monday?”

“I am still allowed to go to school, right, you’re not going to keep me from that?”

“Of course not,” Cuthbert scoffed.

George nodded.

“But,” Cuthbert continued, “you are going to give me Mr. Malcolm.”

George looked up in shock.

“What?”

“I assume it’s a fake name, fake phone number, fake everything. But I have an inkling as to who it is, and I want him, and you,” Cuthbert pointed his shiny, unused knife at George, “are going to get him for me.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Mr. Malcolm shouldn’t be hard to catch,” Cuthbert mused from his over stuffed chair. George was painted the Monet, Cuthbert had retrieved it, and all the paints, brushes, everything that George had listed, or said, or even mentioned, and placed it in a wing. Cuthbert had called it the West wing, where George’s bedroom was. There was even an oven to help age the painting, now. It looked brand new. “He trusts you and your little gang, right?”

The way that Jos-Cuthbert stressed ‘gang’ made it seem teasing, but George took no fun from it. “We’re not a gang, we’re friends. And we’ve never failed him before.”

Cuthbert nodded, sitting sideways in the overstuffed chair. He was twisting a fire poker in his hands, even though the fireplace seemed to be going at a fine rate. George swallowed nervously, dabbing lightly at the lake below the bridge.

“Does he keep a lot of company?” Hamblett asked, standing guard by the door. At least, he was standing by the door. The alarm was on, so George doubted Hamblett needed to actually stand guard.

“Company?”

“How many men does he usually keep with him?” Cuthbert rephrased with a bored drawl, letting his head fall to the side as he glared at George.

“Just one.”

“And how old is he?”

“Mr. Malcolm or his company?”

Cuthbert frowned, tilting his head. “Both.”

“Mr. Malcolm is middle aged. I don’t know the other one’s name, he usually just stands there with a brief case.” George and Rosie never really liked the other guy. They tended to call him Richard, because Dick was too rude in public, and it made Mr. Malcolm laugh.

“What’s wrong?” Cuthbert asked.

George twisted his head to look over his shoulder. “Hm?”

“You look… off.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” George insisted, and he went back to his lake.”

“He must be Malcolm’s second.” Hensley trilled his lips. “If he’s got his hands occupied, then it’s easy to think he’s got a weapon on him. Maybe in the brief case?”

“Our pay is in there, usually.” George said. “He pays in cash.”

“Fine then. Drop the case, open jacket, boom, there’s a weapon. We can’t be too careful.”

“I’ve never said he wore a suit.” George protested.

“They always wear suits.” Josh waved his hands teasingly. “Easy to tailor to hide weaponry.”

George shook his head. Richard did wear suits, but they could at least try and listen to him. Hamblett and Hensley started talking over George’s head, discussing strategies to distract and take down Richard. Mr. Malcolm was a different story. They had never asked George, but the man already suffered from arthritis. It wouldn’t be difficult to bring him in, whatever the reason Josh- Cuthbert wanted him for.

George moved to shadow in the trees. Monet’s brush strokes were careful and tiny, little dabs here and there, exact. Sure, they all involved nature, greens, blues and whites, cool colors, but they were still very difficult to forge that took hours of dedication. George couldn’t even fathom the amount of time it took for Monet to plan and paint the original works, to motivate himself to go through to pain in his hands to do it.

“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep your face like that.”

George yelped, jumping away from the easel. He wasn’t sure of when, but some how, Cuthbert had moved himself to stand next to the easel, and was now staring at George as he painted. “When did you get there?”

Cuthbert laughed. “I’ve been standing here for a while now. When you paint, you crinkle your nose, here.”

Cuthbert reached out, and smoothed over George’s nose, massaging at the bridge. George had a strong urge to snap his teeth at Cuthbert’s fingers, but he imagined it might get him shot at. He settled for glaring at him.

“Don’t do that.” George insisted, swatting at the air with the brush in his hands. “I could have spilled paint all over the place.”

“You’re so tense, Georgie. Perhaps you should relax a bit. Take a break, and sit down.”

George swallowed, gripping his brush tightly. He remembered what Scott had said, after George had dumped the paint on Cuthbert’s jacket. Cuthbert has doe eyes for you. But Cuthbert was the leader of Triple J, he didn’t do doe eyes, he didn’t fall in love, and he didn’t crush on any one. He pretended to be good, and he choked people with bats later in the hallways when no one was looking, at least no one that counted.

“I don’t think I should. We told Mr. Malcolm that this would be finished three days ago.” George took a step forward, shaking his head to get his bangs out of his eyes. He heard Cuthbert sigh, and briefly wondered if Cuthbert would order him to stop.

But he didn’t. Instead, Cuthbert circled him, a total circle, eyeing him up and down, before ending up right back where he started, and flared his nostrils. “Why did you start?”

“Start forging?”

“No. The whole artsy thing.” Cuthbert rolled his eyes.

George shrugged. “I sort of always did. I mean, I think my mom signed me up for classes when I was tiny to help me make some friends, but I had already been doing it at that point. There’s no rhyme or reason.”

Cuthbert pursed his lips. “And Louisa is?”

George pursed his lips. “That was you?”

“Of course it was me! Who else would it be?”

“I don’t know! I was drunk! I woke up in a strange place in strange clothes in a strange bed! What did you expect?”

“A little gratitude?” Cuthbert sneered, swiping the brush out of George’s hand.

George glared. “For someone I hadn’t seen yet?”

“How about a little patience?”

“You could have been a pervert!” George protested. George could see Cuthbert’s hands were curling and uncurling by his hips, and George could see his nostrils flaring. “You changed my clothes, you saw me naked, that’s not cool! I was unconscious! I don’t know what you did, so I ran!”

George didn’t see, however, Cuthbert’s hand’s reaching forward and grabbing him by the belt. George gasped, stumbling forward.

“You don’t yell at me.” Cuthbert hissed through his teeth. George found his paint covered hands pressed against Cuthbert’s chest, and Cuthbert snatched hold tight of his upped arms. George could hear Hensley and Hamblett not so discretely sneaking out of the room, and shutting the door. Suddenly, he missed them. “Nod if you understand.”

George understood. He nodded furiously, biting down on his lip. Cuthbert dropped his head down, until his forehead was on George’s. The room was silent, except for the crackle of the fireplace, with Josh bruising George’s arms and their foreheads together in the warm light.

And George wasn’t quite sure what to do.


	11. Chapter 11

“What do they want with Mr. Malcolm?” Rosie asked. George shrugged. The trio, at first thrilled to be reunited, was somber around their table. They had managed to get away from Triple J for their lunch break, and were now at a small café, watching a trickle of their classmates pass by. George shrugged, tugging his collar up to cover his fading bruises.

“He’s a harmless old man,” Scott tried to say. “He just wants a bit of beauty in his life, he doesn’t have anything to offer them.”

“Look, I don’t know.” George shrugged. He didn’t claim to understand Josh- Cuthbert.

“Do you know how my family got started?” Blue eyes stared into his, hands running through his hair. George shook his head. “The family business, I mean; my great-great-grandfather went around starting fights, and at the very last moment, when he had the other man pinned, he asked the other man what they would do if my great-great-grandfather spared their life. And, in those times, word was law, so they had to do it.”

George shivered, feeling the carpet beneath his cheek rub roughly against his skin. Josh sighed, his fingers dancing against the blue skin on George’s neck. “Some men did him chores. Some men gave him money. One man introduced him to my great-great-grandmother. Eventually, my great-great-grandfather had enough money to start Cuthbert Enterprises. Two men were strong enough to fight him well enough.”

“Let me guess,” George hummed, smiling softly, “Both their names start with the same letter.”

“Hensley and Hamblett, yes. And they fought with him after that. Eventually, he learned to stop asking people what they could give him, and started picking people out, and telling people, if I spare you, you’ll invest here, or you’ll do that.”

“You know a lot about you’re great-great-granddad.”

“Well, he’s a legendary Cuthbert.”

George giggled, “Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, clearly you’re not revising your history.”

“I find others to be far more interesting than him.”

“Are we really willing to do this?” Scott asked. “Turn in one of our loyal customers? We’ll never be trusted again.”

“People do that sometimes.” Rosie shrugged one shoulder, her dark painted lips pouting out a touch. George nodded in agreement. They weren’t exactly working with the world’s most honest men.

“But we’re not dangerous! We’re not like…” Scott growled, digging his fingernails into his palms angrily. “We don’t flip just like that, we’ve never done it before.”

“This is George’s life we’re talking about, Scott. It’s not like we have a lot of options.” Rosie’s nostrils flared.

Scott rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying we leave him in the dirt, Rosie, but there has to be something!”

“Either we flip on Mr. Malcolm or Triple J hurts George! They have him now. He’s theirs and since we care about him, we’re theirs, too. There isn’t much to be done.”

“There is always something.” Scott insisted, grinding his teeth and hissing loudly. “I don’t care if we have to become as criminal as Triple J to do it, but we can’t just let Triple J control everything we do from here on out.”

George watched the exchange with trepidation, his fingers twitching under the table. In the back of his mind, he was tracing finger shaped bruises on his arms, feeling the whispered breath in the shell of his ears. He was wondering if he would miss it.

“We’re forgers.” Rosie frowned. “I suppose, we could do pretty much anything, couldn’t we?”

George shook his head violently. “No, no, you’re insane!”

“Oh, come on!” Rosie insisted.

“Do you know how much that would cost?” George ran his hand through his hair. He licked his lips, swallowing nervously. “I can’t imagine- we can’t afford it.”

“We could. We will.” Rosie took his hand out from under the table, grasping it tight on top. George smiled, looking down at their intertwined fingers.

“Its really weird seeing you guys agree about things.” He teased, trying to lighten the weighted air. Rosie groaned, dropping her head into her gloved hand, but Scott laughed loudly, shoulders shaking.

“We’re not agreeing, we’re amicably- oh fuck…” Rosie traced her eyebrow with one red painted finger. Scott kept on snickering all through out her groans and grumbles. George shook his head, and after a few moments, he couldn’t contain his giggles any more.

George twisted the coffee cup between his fingers, feeling his friends watching him. A few stray giggles escaped every now and then, a smile still on his face. “Have you talked to Harriett?”

“Yeah.” Scott replied. “She’s a little worried. But I told her that you’re with the bloke that called 999 on your arse, so she thinks your fine.”

George nodded. “It’s kind of weird. You know? She’s not kicking me at night. I keep thinking that she will, but she’s not. It’s almost hard to sleep with out it. I never thought it would be harder to sleep with no kicking and plenty of blankets. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rosie snorted into her chai tea, and Scott glared at her. George fell back into his seat, picking at his fingernails. He wondered for a moment, thinking of everything he had been through. He wondered if he could really do it.

Josh Cuthbert had bright blue eyes. George wondered how he had never noticed that, lying there on the carpet. Josh traced his fingers against George’s neck, against the fading bruises there, sighing softly.

“You didn’t deserve these,” Josh whispered.

George shrugged, “it’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. You were dead.”

“I’m not now.”

Josh smirked. “That’s because I saved you.”

“Pride will get you killed.” George pointed out.

Josh’s blue eyes turned dark and cold. “I would have killed Nicholas if he had killed you.”

George supposed, if anything, he didn’t have much of a choice. He turned to Rosie, and nodded slowly. “If we’re really to do this, someone will have to be the go-ahead. And then, we’ll need money, and planning. And we’ll need to do it fast; the painting is nearly finished.”


	12. Chapter 12

Rosie twisted her hair, done up with burgundy streaks and matching thick eyeliner. Her fingers drummed on her thighs nervously- she should have listened to George’s texts to bring some tea in a to-go container, she hated not having something to occupy her hands. But she had wanted to appear harmless, and so she came bare, lacking even a purse and pockets to hide a weapon in.

Of course, having wine colored hair didn’t exactly scream to adults “Hey, let me tutor your children!” to most adults, but this wasn’t exactly a normal situation. And last night had been stressful, and she had gotten very drunk in order to cope. And apparently, decided to dye her hair burgundy.

Sober Rosie approved the decision; actually, it looked quite cool with her silver contacts. It had been a bit of a shock to wake up to, naturally, and Scott had laughed and sneered at her for a half an hour. So naturally, she had to tell him that she loved it.

The weight of the world was on her shoulders when she saw that brief case round the corner, and her throat swelled choked. Of course, he was dressed in a neat suit, stand out like a sore thumb next to her in her fish nets on her arms and legs.

“You’re bare,” Richard said.

Rosie snorted, shaking her head. “I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly decent. Well, decent for a girl like me.”

“You know what I mean. You and your friends are cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?”

Rosie clicked her tongue against her teeth, holding back her snarl. “Something’s happened to my friends, and you’d better be grateful that I’m here at all. We don’t really like you, but we consider Mr. Malcolm nice enough to deal with you, so I’m here, risking my neck.”

Richard narrowed his eyes, and circled his hands forward in the air, edging her on.

“George has been… compromised. Against his will, so you know. None of us want to do this. In fact we’re working on a way out, but… before we can, the one compromising him, he wants Mr. Malcolm.”

Richard nodded, and lifted his brief case. Rosie ducked her head, flinching, and Richard laughed. “It’s alright. Mr. Malcolm is fond of George. I’m merely giving him a head’s up.”

***

One of the strangest things about living with Josh Cuthbert was seeing him being… sweet. George couldn’t have imagined Josh Cuthbert ever being sweet. But here he was, tugging George into him on the couch, and whispering in his ear that he loved how the creases of George’s hands were stained. George snickered, telling him that in a few days, the stains would fade, not to worry.

Josh would smile, nudging his nose into George’s cheek. “Maybe you should get your hands dirty again, then.”

George giggled, burying his head into his hands. “I hope you just mean painting!”

Josh hummed softly, tickling George’s skin, “Maybe.”

George shook his head, smiling to himself. To the side of the love seat was a tray of food, plates with golden design, and steak cooked pink. Despite the juice that still ran warm through the meat, and the forks and knives that lay on the tray, Josh had insisted on using his fingers to push the pieces of cut up cow through George’s lips himself.

Today had been perfect, the morning at least, and yet, they had done nothing. Josh had insisted, so far, that George remain in his own room, his separate quarters. But he had woken up to Josh knocking on his door with breakfast waiting for him, sausage, cheesy eggs, and coffee, and they ate cuddled together behind his curtains in his bed.

And then, they may have bathed together.

They watched movies and stayed in, texting Hensley and Hamblett to stay out. George had never seen Blu-Ray before, and the picture on the 2009 Trek movie was rather fantastic, and Josh laughed as George complained about the movie being too different from the series, how Kirk was supposed to have blue eyes, etcetera.

“They should have mentioned Tarsus IV,” George frowned. “I would have killed for that.”

Josh merely nodded, “Of course.”

George sighed. “You have no clue what I’m talking about.”

“None at all.”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t a big deal in the series. But it was a big fandom thing.”

George knew that he wouldn’t have many days like this. He knew he shouldn’t consider this a perfect day. He had to consider the fact that Josh Cuthbert had blood on his hands, dripping and warm. He had to force himself to wonder if the blood belonged to someone still alive or not.

And he had to think of Nicky, who’s life was at stake. Sure, George wasn’t exactly a fan of the footie player, he was kind of an arse, but he didn’t deserve to die. No one deserved death. Not when they were still in their teens.

“You alright?” Josh asked.

“Yeah.” George made himself smile. Josh wrapped his arm tighter around the loveseat, around George’s shoulders. George stared at the hand lying by his chest, unable to stop himself from imagining a red substance dripping from the smooth yet callused finger tips. “Do you ever think of the future, Josh?”

“All the time.” Josh smiled ever so slightly, revealing his two missing teeth. George had grown ever so fond of the gaps- it made for the most interesting snogging sessions he’d ever had. “Cuthbert law number four; never stop thinking of the future.”

“I thought number three was never stop remembering the past- isn’t that contradictory?” George asked.

“A bit, yeah, but we make it work. And when it works, it works wonders. Look how far the Cuthberts have gone, Georgie. We’ve gotten this house, this food, this 

money, everything beyond the means to support ourselves.”

“And the drugs, and the beatings…”

“My dad calls it training, for what I’m going to do later.”

“Did you ever think about… not doing that?” George fumbled his words slightly. Don’t bite your lip, don’t bite your lip, be strong, be assertive, don’t look up, and don’t look up.

“We re-invest our money into Cuthbert Industries. The company employs hundreds of thousands of people, George. Do you know what would happen if the company lost profit, even just a little?”

Josh’s tone was harsh, too harsh, and George could feel his heart rate rush in his veins. Josh wouldn’t hurt him, would he?

Of course Josh would hurt him. There was no reason for Josh to not hurt him. Josh had hurt many people, and the imaginary blood dripping slowly from his hands onto George’s shirt only proved it. George shook his head.

“Investors would get nervous, and nervous investors sell their stock, and when too many investors sell stock, people stop buying stocks, and all those who were employed here become unemployed. So yes, Cuthberts sell drugs. And yes, we beat people up for not paying, and yes, we sell sex, and alcohol and other recreational items that are rather illegal and illegally push the profits back into Cuthbert Industries, and make people think the company is legal, and healthy, and stable. But, a good six percent of the UK is employed here. So, it’s not all bad, is it?”

George shook his head up and down, trying to swallow the lump the size of the steak that had been on the tray. There was no toll, no count of how many people in total Josh’s father had hurt, but he knew it was high. Whether they had taken drugs or medication without paying, or insulted him, or stolen from him, he had enacted revenge on them or their kin, and ridden away in a limousine.

Suddenly, instead of delicious steak, George’s mouth had a coppery aftertaste.

“You don’t look well, George.”

“I’m… I’m fine.” George insisted. Rosie and Scott’s plan was running through his head. He had to act normal. He had to be perfect.

Josh sighed, looking over to the meat dish. “Do you think…? Perhaps I shouldn’t have served you that, you’re not used to fine dining yet.”

George nodded furiously, “Yeah, it was a little heavy. Delicious, I mean, really good.”

Josh looked down, a flicker of curiousness flashing through his eyes. George nodded, breathing in deeply, and tried to swallow away the coppery taste, but it didn’t leave. Josh sighed, and stood up.

“I’ll take you to bed, then, come on.”


	13. Chapter 13

“You aren’t seriously still mad?” Josh’s voice was sweet in his ear. George crossed his arms, stiffly, childishly. “I can think of many, many ways to fix that, you know. One of them, I am sure, you may not like.”

 

“This isn’t something you can fix so easily, Joshua.” George snipped. Josh’s sigh broke up in his ear through the hidden piece. It was heavy and poked at the bones of George’s skull, irritating him even more. All that George wanted to do was forget that any of this was going on, but the little voice in his ear wouldn’t let him.

 

According to Josh, Mr. Malcolm was quite worthless, an old man wasting what bit of retirement funds he had left on some forgeries so that he could die with some paintings to stare at. The only reason, according to Josh, that the old man was worth anything, was so that George could turn him over, and in doing so, prove to Josh, that he was loyal to Josh, and only to Josh. It probably would have worked, in the long run, too. All of George’s old clients would have gotten word that George had rolled over on his back, letting a harmless man down. They would have run, and George would have been left hung out to dry, stuck clinging to Josh. It would have been a conscious choice- his clients or Josh?

 

But, when prepared, and when paired with forgers, Mr. Malcolm wasn’t going to be so harmless. And George wasn’t going to be stuck choosing between death and Josh Cuthbert.

 

“I thought I told you; you can’t yell at me.”

 

“I’m angry. I yell when I’m angry.”

 

“So don’t be angry.”

 

“You can’t control emotions, Josh.”

 

“Oh, but I do.” George could practically hear the smirk in Josh’s voice. “I’m like the boogey man. Fear goes where I do.”

 

“Just remember, if Cuthbert sees it, you’re dead,” Rosie told him. George nodded nervously. The tiny debit card seemed fragile in his hands. According to Richard, it was encrypted to be untraceable, but it seemed so flimsy. George had never had a card before, other than his student ID, which didn’t even count. “You can’t loose it. This is you’re way out.”

“Do you know how much he put on it?”

“At least enough to get you started,” Rosie insisted.

 

Richard and Mr. Malcolm entered the little shop where they were planning to trade. They made idle chat, and to any one watching, it looked quite innocent. Perhaps the elderly man was his dad, picking him up for lunch, George had his school bag with him after all, holding the painting, which could easily be a school project.

 

They looked at each other with practiced nonchalance, as Mr. Malcolm escorted him from the premise, around the corner to the back of the store. There were smiles, George’s cherub cheeks and delightful giggles, the tapping of Mr. Malcolm’s cane on the ground as they went to the dirty alley in the back.

 

“What did you tell my parents?”

“That you won a scholarship. That you were going away to boarding school, on the other plan.” Scott instructed him softly.

“And Harriett?”

“To not expect you to come home.” Scott gripped George’s shoulder comfortingly. “At least, not for a long time.”

George fell back against his lockers, looking down at his cell phone, down to his contact list. He scrolled through his names, through his family, people he hadn’t even seen in such a long time.

 

“Is that the painting?”

 

“Yes, sir,” George said with a smile. He handed over the rolled up canvas. He knew that Josh’s men were on their way, with guns and muscle on their side. Richard unfurled it carefully, examining George’s careful work, for show, of course. George always did fine work.

 

“Your pay.” Mr. Malcolm handed over the brief case. George quickly opened the case and grabbed everything that wasn’t money, and slid them inside his jacket, conveying his gratitude in his eyes, closing the briefcase shut as quietly as he could. He couldn’t voice it, not with Josh listening.

 

“It won’t even be forgery.” Rosie said. “It’ll be real.”

“Dead babies.” Scott shuddered violently. Rosie slapped his arm.

“It’s the only way to keep you hidden! And eventually we’ll find you, and we’ll come live with you, and everything will go back to normal.”

“Except George will have the papers of a baby born dead.”

Bullets- not aiming, of course, warning bullets- started flying, and George didn’t even register anything except for Josh’s quiet voice telling him to duck. George cowers to the dirty ground, it had rained last night, and soon his hands are covered in mud. His mind is filled with the mother of the baby whose name he’s stealing, and the nights he’s spent in Josh’s warm arms.

 

“I’m sorry.” George insists. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“What is going on?” Mr. Malcolm demands. Triple J is grabbing George’s forgery out of his hands, grabbing the case of money. “Shelley, what have you done?”

 

“I didn’t want to. I swear it.” George promises.

 

“Well, he sort of did. We gave him a rather fair trade.”

 

“This isn’t going to stay quiet, Shelley!” Mr. Malcolm promises. George thinks he might break down crying. He drops his head to his knees, digging his fists deeper into the mud, careful not to crinkle the paper in his jacket. Jaymi and JJ drag Richard and Mr. Malcolm away, but Josh, dear, blue eyed Josh, walks over to George, petting his shoulders. 

 

“You did well, Georgie.” He promises. But George still feels as dirty a criminal as the mud beneath him.


	14. Chapter 14

“Do you know what it was like?” Josh had asked. It was the only night they shared a bed, one wondrous, beautiful night. Perhaps it had been cloudy, or even a full, clear moon, George had paid no attention to the weather, only to the scars etched into Josh’s skin, the way he felt under his fingertips. “How it felt when I saw you lying there?”

It didn’t take more than that, for George to know what Josh was talking about. He had few and far near death experiences, after all, just the man on the street, and the boys in the bathroom, and Josh hadn’t even heard about the man on the street, as far as George knew.

“You were so still, so quiet.” Josh’s fingers were trailing patterns on George’s collarbone as he whispered. Distressed, George scurried closer to the blue-eyed boy, curling his arm around his muscled abdomen. Josh pressed his lips to George’s temple softly, but he didn’t stop. “I knew, in class, you were often quiet, but you giggled with your friends, you were always doodling in your margins. But then you were just… You were a corpse on the carpets; George, you were cold. I’ve seen men dying before. But I’ve never seen innocent men die.”

“It’s not like I’ve never done anything wrong before.” George pushed himself up onto his forearms. “Fraud; falsifying tax reports, forgery.”

Josh smiled softly, “Copying a signature here and there isn’t much compared to beating wives to a pulp.”

George smiled, and teasingly pushed Josh’s shoulder. “You’ve never beaten someone’s wife.”

Josh shook his head, smiling. “Just a saying.”

“Good.”

***

“You know you can’t stay,” Rosie had said. Her words were echoing in his head with every step he took towards his gate, B-19. Staying hindered her life, Scott’s life, possibly endangered it. “You know that. Think of your brothers and sisters.”

He didn’t imagine Josh wanting to meet them all, not all seven, not all at once. He didn’t imagine picnics in the park, or bringing them around for tea. But at some point, really, Josh would have let him out. At some point, the excuse of staying at mum or dad would have worn off on dad or mum. He would have had to gone back home. And his baby siblings would have met the blood stained blond.

George looked down at his own ink-stained fingernails, and wondered how long it took Josh to wash his hands. His one bag had a squeaky wheel, trailing behind him, making his ears hurt. It was packed lightly- half with just the money they had saved, then toiletries, clothes, and things he could sell. He would need a job, Mr. Malcolm had given him a diploma, so he would be able to work full time. But he would still need time to find a place to stay. Thankfully, he’d actually paid attention to Monsieur LeBlanc in class rather than trying to pear at his très beau arse. He knew enough to get by, and what he didn’t know, he’d learn, and that was the way of the world.

George couldn’t bear to think about Josh waking up, in just two hours, if he knew the blue eyed boy well enough, without George in his room. Josh would scan the whole house, screaming. Perhaps he’d get out that bat: that dreaded piece of wood that had scared George so long ago, and start smashing things again. Then, when he saw that George was no where to be found, well-

Then he’d get Jaymi and JJ, and they’d watch the security tapes. More of the Cuthbert men would be on the streets, searching. Mr. Malcolm had made it look slightly dubious, escorting George out of the building. Josh might think that there was black mail, or threatening involved, with the strong grip Richard had on George’s arm. But George did walk out, and he looked straight at the cameras as he left.

It was his only form of goodbye, heart clenching in his chest. He went to mouth something, but they were on a time limit, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was he wanted to say.

Waiting to board the plane was a nightmare; he kept waiting for Triple J to burst through security, dragging him back through central London. He had his iPod, a standard, just music player version; he could plug in his headphones to distract himself but he didn’t dare miss any calls to get on the plane as soon as possible.

“Fist time flyer?” A woman had asked. He shook his head. She started chattering away, about safety and turbulence, babies crying. He didn’t mind- it was a little annoying but at least it stopped people from thinking he was an unaccompanied minor.

***

“Have you ever thought about…” George trailed off, trying to think about ways to phrase his question. The movie playing was muted, they had stopped watching it so long ago, George had forgotten what genre it even was. “I don’t know. What your life might have been like, if you were Josh Smith, or something?”

“If I had been boring, you mean?” Josh smiled, tossing some popcorn at him. They were lying on their bellies, heads in their arms and staring at each other. George crinkled his nose and giggled.

“Not boring,” George shook his head. “You. Just not… violent you. You could… I don’t know, be a seamstress or something.”

Josh snorted, head nearly falling over into the bowl of popcorn. George giggled, “I’m serious! You enjoy football! You’re Mr. Smith dad might have been one of those, ‘Joshy, you will go to uni on a footie scholarship!’ Dads! You might have done really well there.”

“Yeah,” Josh nodded, but George could see the sarcasm in his eyes. “Until I broke a nail, and my career ended.”

George huffed, rolling over, and sat back on his heels. Josh followed him, brushing the brown-eyed boy’s fringe back. “What’s brought this on, now?”

George shook his head, but Josh smiled. “Oh come on now. Is my little artist worried about me?”

“Did you just- I am not little!”

Josh wrapped his arms around him, until George was encased in all that was Josh, forcing him to fall over, giggling in insanity, and Josh’s fingers were in his arms, tickling him. “You were worried! You were worried!”

“I wasn’t! Stop it! Stop it, Josh!”

George finally was able to catch his breath ages later, heaving slightly, Josh grinning over him, eyes sparkling. He leant up, pecking him on the lips. The amber haired boy grinned, and said once more, “You worry about me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

George laughed, and kissed the boy once more. “Perhaps… just a little.”

Josh dropped his chin down to George’s chest, smirking.

****

The plane took off, with out a hitch. George’s breath, however, not so well. The man next to him was snoring away, the sleeves of his red shirt turned down. George felt sick when he saw the red cuffs, and he had to close his eyes.

He didn’t know why, after all this time, he was dreaming, or daydreaming at least, of the toilets, of lying on that floor, of the blood staining shirts, staining floors. But he was in the air now, and if he could manage to unclench his fingers from the armrest, he would be able to raise the window cover, look down over the UK.

He was out of Josh Cuthbert’s reach, and he felt so sick.


	15. Chapter 15

It was just a little bookstore, with a coffee and tea stand off to the side. George had quickly learned to make croissants- which were actually much more difficult to make than he had even thought before, and he had already thought they were difficult. The owners had taken him in, letting him rent out their spare room for three months before he found his own place.

 

George was known as Gregory Meyer. It was similar enough to his own name that he responded when it was called, but varied enough that no suspicion was raised. George still drew- in fact, he did side walk art in front of the book store to draw in customers, sometimes using the covers of famous book to inspire him, or frames of movies that came from books if they were having a slow day.

“You shouldn’t be working in a bookshop,” The Madame would sometimes tell him, in French of course, looking over at his work. “You have much talent. Too much to be working here.”

George would smile and giggle for her- she loved when he laughed, really and he was slightly scared she might fire him to get him to go to the Arts school up north. She kept shoving pamphlets in bags every now and again, but really, it was for French Kids, and he was nearing twenty now, and still rather Proper British as he told her.

George had only been on a few dates since then, and one tenuous relationship. By then, Rosie and Scott had come up, had changed their names to Rachel and Sam and all but thrown a fit when they discovered he had seemingly remained celibate by Josh’s absence.

His name was Olivier, and they went out for a total of five months. George felt sick for most of it, wanting to puke whenever Olivier called George “mon cher Gregory!” Olivier was a Paris man. He had fish for pets, because they didn’t scratch at anything. He was saving up for a trip to Paris, and was pacifistic.

 

Rosie and Scott handled him at night, the pacing and the crying, because god, Olivier was just so Paris, something had to be wrong with George if he didn’t like him. Olivier was sweet, and he held the doors open for ladies with strollers, and he’d never even gotten a speeding ticket.

It was all just so wrong.

Despite Rosie and Scott’s insistence that he would grow used to Olivier’s letting spiders out of the fucking flat instead of squashing them to a pulp and glaring as if they’d done him wrong, by Month Five, George sat him down, shook his head, and told him, “Je suis tellement désolé.”

I am so sorry.

Olivier had frowned, and asked, “Oh, mon cher Gregory, pourquoi?”

George did his best to convey the idea that no, he hadn’t cheated, there wasn’t another man nor woman in his life. Olivier had done nothing wrong; he had been the perfect gentleman. But George also couldn’t tell him that he was too perfect.

Olivier did try and come back- he wasn’t so perfect to just walk away. And George thought so many times of letting him back in- but it wasn’t the kind of relationship built to last. George wasn’t Gregory, and Olivier thought he was simply a bookkeeper’s assistant who sometimes drew on the sidewalk.

The past came up like the kraken three months before George turned twenty. Rosie, Scott and George had known that, one day, they would return to the UK. They had been hoping it would be on their own terms, of course, even discussed doing it in turn on vacation (oh how George missed his siblings, Will’s smile, Harriett’s kicking him in her sleep though he doubted they would be sharing beds now they were grown.

This did not feel like it would be on their own terms. No one had that jaw line, mixed with that hair color, those cheek bones, oh. George ducked, falling behind the counter, hoping to God that Josh hadn’t seen him. He had a sickening feeling that if Josh was here in Nice, than he already knew where George worked.

Maybe he was here on vacation? Lots of people came to Nice for vacation, right? There was the beach, the hotels, and the flowers, of course, plenty of people came, they were constantly buzzing with tourists. There was a large chance that Josh Cuthbert was here for vacation.

“Gregory?” The monsieur asked. “Why are you on the floor?”

“My ex boyfriend,” George replied, chewing on his lip, pointing over his shoulder, “From the UK. He is here, and I don’t know why.”

The Monsieur and the Madame loved him, of course, but they had a grandparents’ eyes for liars. George knew he looked a mess, knew he looked scared, but that’s because he was, and the Monsieur and Madame always had suspected foul play when he first came to them.

“It will be fine,” The Monsieur promised him.

George shook his head, the bookshop silent other than the tea pot preparing water. “You don’t know that.”

The bell rang, just a soft jingle that usually made the Madame grin, but this time it made George curl further into himself.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” Oh, how well George knew that voice. He clenched he intertwined hands to his lips, shaking. When was the last time he heard that voice? They had been talking to each other so sweetly- Josh was probably still mad at him. By now he must have figured out how George left. “I’m looking for someone, a boy. He goes by Gregory Meyer, and he works here.”

“Get out of here. You are not welcome.”

 

The Monsieur left the register and started pushing, and shoving.

“Oi- get off of me old man, I don’t think you understand-!”

“Qu’est-ce c’est?”

The Monsieur’s voice was horrified, but Josh’s voice was steady, the boy rarely lost control. George swallowed nervously- the Monsieur was usually so jovial. “This is a weapon. This is used to kill. What do you think it is? I only want to talk to him.”

George leapt to his feet. “Don’t hurt him!”

Josh was smirking, that damned denim jacket tight on his shoulders, straining over the muscle and height gained over the years. And there were the paint stains, still so visible. George had half a mind to question if Josh had even tried to wash them out. The Monsieur had his eyes shut in regret.

 

“He’s a good man- he doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Josh looked beautiful- he was always beautiful but his eyes, though cold, were bright, and his hair was perfectly manicured. The gun in his belt was recovered by the jacket, and he nodded towards the monsieur. “Tell him to take his coffee break.”

“He speaks English fine,” George said softly. George nodded to him, trying to convey that he would be fine. He tried to tell him not to call the police, or tell someone to call the police, or do anything that might get Josh in trouble. He was fine. “He understands.”

“Good.” Josh nodded, slowly, watching the Monsieur leave.

“You hurt him,” The Monsieur said, his accent heavy in the thick air, “I will hand deliver your balls to my wife to cook for dinner.”

 

Josh snorts, sitting in one of the stiff, wooden chairs, twisting his hands. His eyes were so bright. “You’ve made an impression.”

“I have,” George replied.

“I would have thought you would prefer to stay anonymous.”

“Being cute has advantages. And apparently, I am.” It was shocking to him, when it first happened; the Madame had grabbed his cheek and told him she could just eat him up and feed him until he burst which was really quite confusing. Or when she cooed at him or tugged him into hugs, at first he wanted to bolt. It took a while for him to realize- without his leather and his sneers, his illegal activities- apparently, he was endearing.

“Cute doesn’t last.”

“I have it for now, and for now is when I need it.”

“Why?” Josh finally demanded.

George sat down, in a chair opposite of the room of Josh. “You took me away from my family, and from my friends.”

Josh scoffed and yelled. “You ran away to fucking France!”

“You wouldn’t let me see them! You made me turn on my customers and that would have affected my family, some of them were just babies! They thought monsters lived under their beds, Josh!” George bit at the knuckle of his thumb.

“You didn’t seem to mind it then.” Josh ran a hand through his golden hair. “You seemed…”

“You were sweet to me.” George shrugged one shoulder. “And you were funny. But I’m not just… I can’t just stay inside all the time. I’m not Belle. And you’re not-“

“I’m not what?” Josh demanded. George flinched, teeth tearing at his lip. “I don’t suppose you’re talking about the beast.”

George shook his head, making Josh swear. Josh stood up, swinging his arms around to stretch them. George peered out of the corner of his eye, looking out of the window. He couldn’t see JJ or Jaymi, not with his angle at least, but he doubted that Josh came alone.

“Those friends of yours,” Josh said slowly, “they’ve gone missing too.”

George nodded slowly.

“I don’t suppose if I followed you long enough, I’d run into them, too.”

George exhaled loudly as his answer.

“You’re not near as subtle as you think you are, mate.”

 

“I’m trying to protect them!”

“Trying to protect them? From what?”

“From you!” George snapped. Josh paled several shades. “I was trying to say you weren’t safe. Now I know that you could never hurt me. I know that. But by keeping me, you were hurting them, and my family, and seeing them hurt, hurt me. We couldn’t work, and me working helped my family, don’t you see? It’s all just a circle, Josh you weren’t safe! And I never wanted to hurt you, by leaving I tried to hold it off, I tried to think of other ways.”

“So you made it look like you weren’t leaving so very willingly.” Josh seethed. “You made me worry for years, about whether or not your laying somewhere torn to shreds until I find you working ever so happily in a bookshop on the coast of France.”

“I’m content.” George hissed. “I get by.”

“You have a beach and books!”

“I don’t have you!”

“The one who threatened your family’s safety, you’re giving me some mixed signals here, George, make up your god damned mind.”

There it was.

Things had been so easy with Olivier, really. He already knew what he wanted- not him. George leaned forward onto his knees, face into his hands and groaning.

“Who told you?”

George looked up in shock. Josh was leaning against one of the bookshelves, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “What?”

“Who told you that I was bad for you?”

 

George clicked his tongue and turned away.

“Those friends of yours? Fuck them! Fuck everyone! “

“And your company! Those things you do?” George demanded. “You’re hands are red, Josh, and I’m not the kind of person to ask you to stop doing what makes you who you are.” 

Josh surged forward, then, grabbing George’s hands. For a few moments, everything was silent, the air only filled with the sound of Josh’s heavy breathing. “I won’t stop- I can’t.”

“I know, Josh, I know.”

“I know you like it here.”

“I’m safe here.”

Josh kissed him- so similar to those bathtub kisses when they had all the time to kill, but somehow, afterward, George’s cheeks were wet. George hadn’t been crying. George hadn’t cried in months.

“I’m not letting you go, not now that I’ve found you again.” Josh breathed. George nodded insistently, his neck cradled in Josh’s hands.

“I have a birthday coming up in a few months. You can come and visit?” George offered. Josh laughed, and nodded his agreement. George knew that Rosie and Scott would be mad, but he didn’t have the energy to care. For the moment, everything felt right, when they had felt like hell for so long.


End file.
